


And the Rest is Rust and Stardust

by HellNHighHeels



Series: And the rest is rust and stardust [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode Fix-It: s04e08 Silence in the Library, F/M, I guess this is technically an AU now?, Ignore the events of the Christmas special
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 155,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellNHighHeels/pseuds/HellNHighHeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a coincidence, a cruel cosmic joke the universe is making because it likes to see him suffer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twist of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
> 
> Assume this takes place between the Trenzlores. So after NoTD but before he regenerates, obviously. Okay. Here we go, my first shot at a multi chapter story. Soooo yeah, *throws it at you and hides*

 

 

“Man does not control his own fate. The women in his life do that for him.” -Groucho Marx

* * *

 

 

It's a coincidence, a cruel cosmic joke the universe is making because it likes to see him suffer.

It's her handwriting. There's no denying that. He'd know that ledger anywhere. He's seen it scrawled across time and space, carved into mountains and monuments, burned into precious relics. He's seen it in the form of casual doodles and carefully written love letters. But he hasn't seen this particular note in a very long time, a lifetime in fact.

_"The Library. Come as soon as you can. X"_

It's just lying there, taunting him, eight words that bring him to his knees. It’s a cry for help, signed with a kiss. A kiss that puts knots in his stomach and knives in his hearts. It makes his mouth dry and cracked, leaving a bitter taste clinging to his tongue like ashes or poison. She’s always killing him with kisses. 

He's read it a thousand times. He’s examined it, tucked it away, stared at it again, thrown it across the room, carefully picked it up, soniced it, willed it to say something else, _anything_ else. And yet, there it sits, as if the words were carved into the parchment like one of her calling cards for him to find, a casual invitation for laughing and running and adventure. But it's anything but. 

" _The Library"_  

Those words only bring death and heartache. A nightmare he's already lived once and has no desire to enact again. It must be a mistake, just a malfunction, psychic residue from the past bleeding through. Maybe he passed through a gamma pocket in the vortex or the dimension dams need tuning. Or maybe the paper is just getting old now. Things do that, don't they? Get wonky when they get old. Like him, he gets confused and distracted far more often than he used to. Like that time on Habet when he accidentally sat on the Emperor because he got distracted by the local hat collection, but none of that is important right now because his feet are pacing around the console and his eyes keep gravitating to the psychic paper and- 

_"as soon as you can. X"_

His days with River were done. He'd accepted that. He'd moved on, well, as much as one could move on from River Song. He still keeps her with him in subtle ways: a key to the TARDIS hidden away in one of her books, artifacts she’d discovered on display, and a blue bow tie in his breast pocket. She never fully relinquished her hold on his hearts. The ones you love never truly leave you. She'll always be the dull ache in his chest that never seems to fade, always that thought he can’t quite form, dancing just beyond his grasp. She is the empty space he can never quite fill. But he learned to cope, accepted that she wasn't coming back. He was living again, and now…

He turns away from the paper again, needing physical separation from the parchment. His hands wrap around the railing, knuckles turning white in an attempt not to turn around, not to look at it. But it's no use. No matter what he does, the message stares at him. It follows him around the room, mocking him.  He feels it across his skin, tickling the hairs of his neck like it's a living breathing being. It burns its way into the curious bits of his brain. The part that whispers, _what if?_  

He should put it back in his pocket. He should forget about it. Yeah, he will. Definitely. 

Except-

It's made a home right behind his eyes, itching and nagging at him like a half finished project, an unsolved puzzle. River was always doing that to him, dangling mysteries in front of him and teasing him with improbable things. But to be fair, she's never led him astray before. Maybe he could-

No. No no _no_. It's probably not even from her. Anyone could have sent that message. Lots of people can communicate directly with psychic paper and sign summons with kisses and order him about and- Well, in any case, there are millions of libraries in the universe. It's not inconceivable to think it's not even _The Library_ he's been invited to. He's just looking for things that aren't there, making puzzles of nothing and putting square pegs in round holes. 

But what if he isn't? Why would she send him the same message twice? Is she being deliberately cryptic? She could be earlier in her timestream and-

No. Now he's really reaching. It's just an error, residual memory bleeding through the psychic paper because it's old. Old and ridiculous and impossible. He should just forget about it. He's good at that, forgetting. 

Still, he can't help the nagging feeling that this is important. That this might be his last chance to see her. One last surprise from Professor Song, one last adventure, one more gift. Maybe he sees her before she sees his younger self. It's hardly the first time he's crossed his own timestream. Though, she did say the last time she saw him was Darillium. Then again, Rule One. 

He bats the idea away immediately. Even in his imagination that's reaching. Talking to her before the Library is out of the question. He barely made it through Darillium without begging her not to go, without collapsing at her feet and pleading with her to just _stay_ , demanding that they run away together and paradoxes and consequences be damned. But he didn’t, because, like her, he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their time together. If he has to suffer the weight of her loss to save their time and memories, so be it. He would suffer the weight of a thousand guilty consciences if it meant he could keep her, even if only in his memories. Besides, The Library is no place to pop in mysteriously and tease her about spoilers. Then again, maybe she doesn't see him, maybe he sees her. Would he be strong enough for that: to watch from afar as she marched to her death? In a way, he's been doing it her whole life. If it was from a safe distance, what could seeing her once more hurt? 

Well, a lot actually. For starters, his tenuous grip on sanity. But it’s too tempting. He should check it out, just in case. He owes it to her, and to himself, to at least investigate. He never could leave a puzzle unsolved. River was always the best puzzle, and the allure of seeing her again outweighs the heartache that will surly follow in its wake. He inputs the much dreaded coordinates to the Library, pointedly ignoring the flicker of hope burning between his hearts. After all, it's probably nothing. 

  
In a matter of moments he's opening the doors to a familiar skyline. It's a sight these eyes have never witnessed, but it's still etched into his memory, haunting his dreams. An orange sunset silhouettes skyscrapers and a doctor moon still hangs high in the sky.  It's something he never wanted to see again, a memory he ran from at every opportunity, a day he filed away, never to be acknowledged again. Only one woman could make him come here. Only one woman would even try. 

It's nothing like the first time though, with eerie, empty halls and dust in every sunbeam. This time the corridors are bustling with people. It must only be a matter of hours since he left the first time, since he first snapped his fingers and began to believe in a future with the brave stranger that knew him so intimately. It’s only hours for them and ages for him. Hundreds of years since his lungs breathed this air, since his skin felt this sunlight, and his footsteps echoed through these halls. No one takes any notice of him as he makes his way through the sea of smiling faces. No one bothers with the young man with the old eyes as he squeezes his way through the crowds and joyous reunions. No one hears the sound of his breaking hearts over their laughter and merriment.

It should make him happy, 4,022 people saved. It _had_ made him happy once, or at least it dulled the ache. That was before he understood what saving them had cost, before River Song and the ends of the universe, before time and space, before they ran.These people don't understand the extent of what happened here. They don't yet know they have been brought back to the land of the living one hundred years out of their time. They don't know that they are only free to bask in the sunlight because of a deal he made with the shadows. They are ungrateful and unaware of the woman who saved them all, who saved him.  

They don't know what he lost.  
  
He wanders aimlessly, not really sure what he's expecting to find. He hunts for her in the sea of thousands, eyes longing to spot her green eyes or mad curls amongst the masses. He imagines her perched on the edge of a table or leaning against a bookshelf, smirking and teasing and _spoilers_. A hello sweetie. A kiss. A slap. Anything to prove that she's still real, still flesh and blood and more than just someone he used to know, more than just a story. He wants evidence that it wasn't just a mix up with the psychic paper, that he didn't come here for no reason, hadn't gotten his hopes up for nothing.

But she's nowhere to be found. It’s like she was never here at all. There isn't even a body. Even that would have been better than nothing. Though it would haunt his nightmares, at least then he would know, at least he would have closure. 

Walking among the crowd, there isn't even a whisper of the heroic woman with the mad, space hair who saved them all. For these smiling faces, one of the worst days of his life was just another day. It makes him feel small in a way he hasn't felt in a long while. What he wouldn't give for one of her cryptic messages or a mysterious summons. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine speaking to her in the mainframe. Surely that would be proof enough to solidify his slowly evaporating hope. But even if he found the strength to speak to her through the data core, he knows he can’t. Bound by foreknowledge from her ghost already telling him he hadn't come to say goodbye. And now his hands are tied. He can't visit her in the Library any more than he could have avoided taking her to Darillium.

What he wouldn't give to see her, just a glimmer, just something to prove she wasn't a dream. Something of hers he could hold and touch, something tangible that proved their love and adventures are more than just a fairytale he told himself to keep from going mad. What he wouldn’t give for- _her diary_.

He really is getting old and slow.

  
Once again he finds himself sprinting through these halls, dodging bookshelves and leaping over carts. He can almost feel her next to him. She is the fluttering of his insides. She is the adrenaline coursing through his veins. She is hope blooming between his hearts. She is the force pushing him through the masses until he finds himself fumbling down the familiar stairwell where he so carelessly left her diary last time he was here. His eyes fall expectantly to the railing, scouring for any hint of TARDIS blue.

But there’s nothing, not even a trace.

"No no no no!" he growls to himself, frantically searching the railing and the surrounding floor. Her diary is gone. His last chance for something tangible, something to cling to to prove she wasn't a dream. And it's gone, with no way of recovering it. It had been dangerous and foolish to leave it lying there. He sees that now, but back then he didn't know how important that blue book was, that it was more than the hopes and dreams of an archeologist. It is their history and twisted timelines etched into parchment with ink and graphite. It is love, trapped within paper and bound between worn, blue covers. It’s their story, and it's potentially the most dangerous book in history. If her diary ever fell into the wrong hands, the results could be disastrous.

"Who took it?" he demands, turning to the surrounding patrons, and if his behavior frightens or concerns them, good. He's not really sure what he'll do without her diary. The promise of nourishment ripped away from a starving man, and now he's left with no choice but to be rabid and angry. Angry at the psychic paper for luring him here, angry at himself for being so weak, and angrier still at whoever took the last remaining piece of her.  
  
"There was a diary sitting right here," he tries again, voice low and dangerous. Everyone’s looking at him now, and his gaze bores into each and every one of them, the deranged look in his eyes draining all merriment from their faces.

“What have you lost, sir?” One of the Library attendants speaks up.

“I haven’t lost anything! Someone took it!” He’s practically shouting, voice bordering on hysteria, but he can’t seem to find the will to care. He promised himself he’d move on, that he’d never go trying to siphon off moments with a woman who was long gone. He swore he would never come back here. But since he's already sunk this far, why not a little bit farther?

"Took what?"

"A book! A blue book!" The Doctor shouts, slamming his hand down on the railing.

"Perhaps we can find you another copy-" the attendant starts, before being interrupted by a four armed creature The Doctor recognizes as a Quatto. Great for multi tasking, Quattors. They must have been brought in to help with damage control. 

"I don't know about a diary,” the creature speaks up. “But someone did leave a note for 'a panicking idiot in a bow tie.' I assume that's you."

The Doctor’s hearts leap into his throat, anger from a moment ago suddenly dissipating as he rushes over to the creature. "Who?” he asks desperately. “Where did they go? What did they look like?"

"I don't know, just someone," the Quattor answers, handing him a folded piece of paper. “You humans all look the same to me."

He lets the assumption slide, too caught up in opening the note. Upon unfolding the paper, he can’t do anything but stare at the sight of coordinates written in familiar handwriting.  
  
The run back to the TARDIS is a blur, all pounding hearts, his pulse in his ears, and only one thought behind his eyes. Never before has he input coordinates so fast. Never before has his mind raced so quickly with possibilities and yet been so positively clear. There is only one thought, shining brightly above the rest. River. Alive. Waiting.

He barely even registers the shudder of the ship as he lands, sprinting to the doors so fast he nearly barrels right through them. But he somehow manages to steady himself, taking a deep, calming breath and straightening his bow tie. He doesn’t know exactly what to expect beyond those doors, but he knows it’s her. He can feel it in his bones, sense it in the warm hum of his ship. River Song is just beyond those doors, and not just any River, a River that not only knows about the Library, but has been there, _survived_ it.

He smoothes down his hair, allowing his mind to run rampant with romantic scenarios of dancing and kissing and swinging her in his arms, of holding her and never ever letting her go. His mind is filled to the brim with all the things he never allowed himself to imagine as he slowly pulls open the TARDIS doors. It’s dark and small and he finds himself fumbling over various pieces of equipment. His foot is caught in something and he’s starting to think he might actually be under attack when the hand groping the wall finally finds a light. Around him there are mops and cleaners and what seems to be a bucket holding his foot hostage. It’s only then that he realizes he’s parked in a broom closet.

Not exactly romantic, but he can't help but smile anyway. It's so very River to send him on a scavenger hunt, never making things simple for him. He's all too happy to play along. He's missed chasing her through time and space. Untangling himself from the janitorial supplies, he takes his first step out into the building. The first thing he notices are the too bright lights and overly polished floors. There’s also a faint smell of cleaner lingering in the air, but, actually, that might be him.

It’s definitely some kind of hallway, though. There’s a quiet, calming energy about the place, and if he tastes the air correctly, it’s a 51st century chemical used to stabilize anxiety. It’s often used in high traffic areas like shopping centers, sports arenas, hospitals- The last thought wipes the smile right off his face, all hope and thoughts of a joyous reunion suddenly crashing down on him. _A hospital._

Looking around, his fears are realized by the sight of an "ER" sign hanging on the wall.  Pushing back the rising tide of panic, he continues down the long corridor. He must be in some type of observation ward because on either side of him are thick panes of glass, and through them he can see comatose patients hooked up to various machinery. His mind is buzzing with a thousand questions: _Why would she bring him here? Is she hurt? If so, how did she leave him a note?_ He’s just about to get out his sonic and do a scan when he sees them: those reddish blond curls he’d know anywhere. Everything he knows focuses down to one point, smaller than the eye of a needle. At the end of the hall and behind a thick pane of glass, she’s asleep in a hospital bed. The sight makes his hearts swell and sink and burst and crumble all at once. He’s down the hall before he’s even remembered he has feet, pulled toward her like she is the sun and he is passing debris, helpless but to be caught up in her gravity. Everything is too bright, too white, and it feels a bit like a dream, like he’ll never need to eat or sleep or breathe as long as he can keep his eyes fixed on her.

Fear crashes over him at the thought that he might, indeed, be dreaming. He finds his hand lifting to touch the glass, needing the feel of something solid against his skin, something tangible to tether him to this impossible reality. He stares at her in awe, gazing at her as if she were some profound artifact locked behind a museum exhibit.

“River," he breathes her name, the title falling from his mouth as comfortable and familiar as an old habit. It's been so long since he allowed himself the privilege of saying it. He expected it to sound foreign and awkward, to stumble over the syllables as he forced the word out from between unworthy lips. But it doesn't. He exhales the word like it is part of the very air in his lungs. It flows out between his lips, caressing the consonants and rolling the vowels like some kind of psalm. _How had he forgotten how good it felt to say her name?_    
  
"You can't be back here," a frustrated voice calls, and he turns to find a middle-aged nurse giving him a reproachful stare. “Sir, this is a closed ward and-“ whatever she sees in his eyes makes her next words catch in her throat, face softening instantly. “Do you know her?” she asks softly, taking a step nearer to him.

His lips threaten to form a sad smile because that question was the understatement of the century. “You could say that.” He answers quietly, eyes drifting back to gaze longingly at the unconscious woman before him. “Is she alright?” he asks, and even to himself he sounds brittle, as if speaking too loud would somehow worsen her condition.

“Her injuries were extensive when she arrived, but she’s stable now.”

“What…” his voice nearly fails him. “What happened? How did she get here?”

"Sorry, but who are you exactly?" she asks, voice tentative, and he passes her his psychic paper without taking his eyes off River. "You're her doctor?" the woman says, and he turns to her, looking almost as surprised as she sounds. "John Smith,” she clarifies, looking again at the psychic paper. “Her primary physician?"

"Oh, yes.” He nods. “Yes, I'm her doctor." _And he always will be._

"Right." The woman passes him back the paper, looking at him less like he’s a grieving visitor and more like a business man she’s about to make a deal with. “You can't examine her presently. We're not allowing visitors at this time, but I'm sure the attending physician will be happy to update you on her conditi-"

Suddenly he doesn't hear another word from the woman's mouth, just white noise singing in his ears, sharp and hopeful and deafening with possibility. He makes for the door, the irritated nurse hot on his heels.

"We're not allowing visitors at this time, sir," she repeats, more forceful this time.

Retrieving his sonic from his pocket he replies, "She'll want to see me." _He hopes_.

"Yes, but sir, there's something you should know-"

He points his sonic off to the left, setting off an alarm and successfully silencing the nurse. She looks from him to the alarm, then back again before giving a reluctant look and heading toward the sound.

He smirks, only a little bit smug, as he silently steps into the room and closes the door. The sound of the alarm down the hall can barely be heard over the hum of various machinery. Loudest of all are the heart monitors, their beeping slow and steady and- _she has a pulse_ , actual beating hearts in her chest. A chest that's rising and falling as air fills her lungs because she's _alive_ and he can hardly believe his eyes.

Tucking his sonic away, he steps closer. She's asleep, hair haloed around her face. It reminds him of Berlin, the first of many times she almost died for him. And here he is, standing in front of her after the one time she succeeded, or, he thought she had at least. She's always getting hurt because of him. He makes a silent promise to never let that happen again. He won’t let this miracle go to waste. He’ll never let another second go by where she doesn’t know how cherished she is, that he’s so very grateful for every beat of her hearts and every breath that she takes. He’ll rejoice in the way she yells and slaps and reprimands him, just as long as she is alive to do it. He'll endure her wrath gladly, no matter how furious she may be with him for keeping such a terrible secret from her all these years.

He’ll never keep another secret from her again. He doesn’t have to.

That revelation is almost too much, and he finds himself unable to refrain from touching her any longer. He lifts a hand, a barely there touch brushing a stray curl behind her ear. She’s soft and warm beneath his fingertips, and without his permission, his lips have lowered to place a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"Hi honey, I'm home," he breathes against her skin, a quiet promise to never let her go again.

She lets out a deep breath, shifting slightly as she opens her eyes. She blinks up at him in surprise, and he finds himself dumbfounded by such a simple feat. Her eyes are open and green and he never thought he'd see such a miracle ever again. They’re even more lovely than he remembered. His memory had dulled them, stripped them of the way they shine and glow like embers. How had he forgotten something so precious?

Her lips part, dry mouth and tongue crackling slightly as she prepares to speak, the anticipation of hearing her voice again nearly sending his hearts into palpitations and-  
  
"I already told you, sir, you can't be in here!" The nurse’s voice makes him turn his head around so fast he nearly gets whip lash. She didn’t come alone, either. She’s brought two rather large security guards with her, and this is all so typical.

"It's fine, I promise. I'm The Doctor," he protests casually, but it doesn't seem to discourage the men as they grab him by the arms and start to all but carry him out of the room. His wife doesn’t say a word, and, again, fair enough. He deserves a little bit of man handling after all that’s happened. But he’d prefer it came from her, and surely she won’t let them arrest him. Actually, on second thought, “River, tell them," he begs. “Tell them I’m The Doctor.”

"Another one?" She laughs, sitting up straighter in her bed. "Honestly, how many do I need?" Not exactly the reaction he expected. But at least the guards have stopped trying to drag him from the room and there’s an edge of hollow humor in her voice and-

That's when it hits him. She's not excited or angry. She’s not throwing herself into his arms to kiss him senseless or smacking him across the face, demanding to know where the hell he's been. She's just sitting there, indifference spelled across her face like she doesn’t care that he’s here, that _her_ Doctor is standing right in front of her. And it hurts worse than any slap to the face. 

It must be some kind of sick joke. He finally has her, finally in the right order, finally they can be together free of secrets and spoilers and rule one. And yet she's staring at him with wide, confused eyes that cut right through him. "River," he breathes tentatively. "Please tell me you know who I am."

She's quiet for a moment, eyes looking from him to the other occupants as if the answer were written on their faces. Eyes finally landing back on him, she asks, "Who are you?"

 

 


	2. What you were then, I am today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The irony isn't lost on him. He's dimly aware of it beneath the much more prevalent terror and dread that coat him like a wet blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from I and Love and You by The Avett Brothers
> 
> This was originally going to be a lot longer. But since this half was finished, I figured, why the heck not?
> 
> ALSO, I made an edit to the first chapter. River does have two hearts. Sorry everyone. Hope that didn't make the story any less interesting for you.

 

 

“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.” Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

* * *

  

The irony isn't lost on him. He's dimly aware of it beneath the much more prevalent terror and dread that coat him like a wet blanket. It’s as if some kind of cosmic karma is constantly working to steal away that which he holds most dear. Retribution for all the lives he’s ruined, for people and planets he’s failed to save. What if she never remembers? What if everything they’ve built is just gone? What if, like so much of his past, she is un-savable? Rose, locked away and unreachable in another universe, Donna, sealed off for her own protection, even his home world, forgotten to time and reduced to myth. And now River, the woman who knew everything, is she too beyond his grasp? 

He thought himself lucky for never having to come to terms with one day meeting a River that didn’t know him. She was raised on stories of him; he never had to worry about a day where she would look at him and feel nothing, see nothing but a blank slate, a stranger. Sure, he had to worry about her assassinating him. But in comparison to this, to looking into her eyes and seeing nothing, not even a spark of recognition from the woman he knew so well, he would take poison over this any day.

He was never very good at being the patient one. There was a time he would have skipped ahead, come back in a few weeks and hoped she had her memories by then. But not now, he’s learned his lesson. He’s tired of always looking ahead and never seeing what’s right in front of him, of being so busy getting to what’s next that he misses the now. He’s never going to take her for granted again. He can see her clearer than ever, bright and hopeful and guiding him like the Evening Star, and he’s never letting her out of his sight ever again.

He's just outside her room, separated by a few simple steps and millions of moments she can't remember. The only obstacles between them a delicate wall of glass and the arduous weight of a life together only he remembers. He can see her from where he stands, but she takes no notice of him. She's propped up in her bed, buried by various books and papers, like she hasn't a care in the world. With a different back drop she could be writing her dissertation for University or plotting how best to escape from Stormcage or grading papers or researching her latest unsolved mystery.

But she isn't. She's in a hospital, and nothing startles him back to that reality more than the voice of River’s doctor, prattling on about a whole manner of medical jargon he's only half listening to. The man is entirely too animated and altogether too excited about the situation, but he seems a nice enough bloke. Under different circumstances, they might have been friends. But the Doctor can’t say he’s enjoying much of anything much at the moment.

Well, apart from the way River furrows her brow when she reads, and how that one stubborn curl never fails to fall in front of her eyes. It’s as if that ringlet craves that puff of breath she gives in order to blow it from her face or the gentle brush of her fingers as she pushes it behind her ear. Not that he blames the unruly strand. He too covets the feel of her breath on his skin and tingle of her fingertips as they trace across his chest. He’s missed the subtle, distinctly River things she does. He yearns to see her capture her bottom lip between her teeth and hear the way she hums in satisfaction and feel the heat of her skin as it presses against his own.

But he really shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. Through great force of will, the Doctor pulls his attention away from River and back to the man in front of him. Wiping away his wistful thoughts, the Doctor drags a hand down his face and sighs, “Explain it to me again."

"As far as we understand it, she was being held in suspended animation within the data core, just like the original four thousand."

"And twenty two." The Doctor interjects, causing the man to shoot him a curious stare.

"Sorry?"

"Four thousand and twenty two. That's how many people she saved."

"Oh, right." The man nods apologetically before continuing. "To be honest, I’d never even heard of her until she showed up in my ER. From what it sounded like, everyone thought she burned up. No one ever considered the mainframe would have teleported her body inside. What would be the point? What is the body without the mind?"

Except she wasn't without her mind. He ensured that; he gave her that much. The Doctor’s eyes fall shut, jaw clenching because _Why hadn't he considered that?_ Or at least thought to check. Of course CAL would try to save her. She saved all those people before, why wouldn’t she try to save River in the only way she knew how: by pulling her into the system before she burned up.  Inwardly, he curses himself for being so caught up in his guilt and his self loathing, for being so busy running he missed what's right in front of him, too focused on forgetting that he never stopped to think. And now River’s paying for it, again. Sighing, he opens his eyes and asks, "But why did the mainframe teleport her back out? Why now?"

"It wasn't exactly on purpose. Her injuries were... extensive to say the least. A few years after Professor Song’s dea-“ clearing his throat and eyes shifting guiltily, the man continues, “after the initial expedition, a team was dispatched to eliminate the swarm. Some kind of gas, I’m not exactly sure, but they were able to get the Library up and functioning again.”

The Doctor finds himself pacing, a physical manifestation of the way his brain keeps ping ponging between theories. “What does all that have to do with River?”

“When they brought her in, they told us something went wrong during routine maintenance. Countless files were lost, half the hard drive wiped, and suddenly, there she was."

“So the computer spits River out as a failsafe, to keep her from being deleted. Does that explain the memory loss? Was it an incomplete download?”

The man shakes his head. “It’s far more likely her memory loss is a side effect of trauma or electrocution. She's doing remarkably well, considering she was in critical condition when she arrived. She seems to remember some things. Her studies, her expeditions, some of her jail time, even some unauthorized time travel, which I’m sure the time agency would be very pleased to hear abou-"

"Nothing of her childhood? Her parents?"

"No. And nothing of the actual Library expedition, which is to be expected. The brain tends to block out painful things. It's a defense mechanism."

Oh, he knows all too well that technique. Sometimes forgetting is the only way to carry on. Although, it wasn't generally a tactic River employed. She had a whole host of memories most people would do anything to forget. But she was a fighter, always making the best of what she was given and finding light in even the darkest of outcomes. Maybe it was all finally too much for her. Maybe the Library was the last straw. River has certainly seen her fair share of terrors; he could understand why she would want to erase painful memories from her childhood and even moments with him. But Amy and Rory, too? No, that wasn't a defense mechanism, something else was happening here. He just couldn't see the whole picture.

It was times like these that made him miss River all the more. He needed her here to see the things he couldn’t, to eliminate the inconsequential, reshape the facts and figures in a way that only her clever mind could fashion. He was always asking for her help, even when she was so young she barely knew how to give it.  

_Look at you. You still care._

And now it’s his turn and he has no idea how to make it better. “Will it come back?” He stills, eyes fixing on the man beside him.

“Sometimes being around familiar people or places can jar the mind into remembering..."

"But not in this case?"

The man hesitates, looking torn between not wanting to give false hope but reluctant to speak the truth. "There’s no way to be sure. It’s a miracle she’s in as good of shape as she is. I mean, she was electrocuted and uploaded into a mainframe, where she remained as suspended data for years before finally being emergency ejected from the system. It's quite the trauma.”

The Doctor shakes his head, resolve settling in. "She's been through worse."

"Worse than dying?" The man laughs, a bit incredulous. "You should accept the possibility that her memories might be gone. Not all things can be overcome."

"She can overcome this. She can overcome anything."

"What makes you so sure?"

The Doctor's eyes fall back to River. "You don't know her like I do.”

It’s quiet for a moment, both men still and contemplative in the too bright hallway. The Doctor doesn’t really care what the odds are or what’s typical in these situations. This is River Song, and she makes a hobby out of doing the impossible. If she’s taught him anything, it’s that there’s always a way out. And they’ll find it together. He’s never been more sure of anything in his whole life.

A soft buzzing noise brings the Doctor’s eyes back to the man beside him, who is frowning down at a pager. “I have to take this.” He admits, eyes searching the Doctors. “Will you be alright?”

The Doctor gives a curt nod, and, regrettably, the man turns to hurry off down the corridor.

Watching him go, the Doctor takes in a deep breath through his nose, inhaling courage so he’ll have the strength to walk through that door and face a wife who doesn’t know him. He holds the breath inside him, trapping the air in his lungs until they begin to burn, until his hearts stutter and he sees spots behind his eyes. He lets the determination spread across his chest and down to his toes, and when he exhales, he feels brave enough to paste a smile on his face and step inside her room.

Putting down the book she’s reading, she looks up at him curiously. “Can I come in?” he asks.

She nods politely. She even spares him a smile, but it isn’t a real smile. It’s something she would give one of her students or a stranger on the street. He supposes that’s what he is now, a stranger who just happens to know everything about her.

Forcing the smile to remain on his lips, he steps fully into the room and asks, “What are you reading?”

Her eyes fall back to her lap full of papers, compulsively straightening them before looking back at him with that counterfeit smile. “They gave me some information about my life to help jog my memory. There isn’t actually that much on my past, but what they do have is quite telling.” A dry laugh forces its way from between her lips, and hollow or not, it’s like music to his ears. “I don’t actually have a birth certificate, there’s absolutely no record of me before Luna University, and I went to prison for a while for killing a man that doesn't exist. They don't even know what species I am. Binary vascular systems aren't exactly easy to come by.” She offers him another self deprecating laugh so he steps forward, picking up one of her books.

“Sounds fun to me," he manages, eyes tracing over the cover fondly, the tension in his body draining at the familiar title. “The kind of life they write stories about.”

She snorts. “So far it seems like the kind of life that’s hard to make sense of even if you have all the pieces." Running a hand through her unruly curls, she shakes her head and says, "I'm sorry. What did you say your name was?"

Well, so much for his unspoken promise of there not being any secrets between them. This really is Berlin all over again, except this time he doesn’t even have the benefit of existing, this time he’s little more than a fairytale. It’s almost poetic, how their entire lives together he had to avoid mentioning her death, and now in the aftermath of her death, he can’t talk about their life together.

"John." The title feels like a swear, like the worst lie he’s ever told because she’s _River_ and she should know him better than anyone, better than he knows himself. She should know every bit of him from start to finish, every good day and every bad. She should know his name. But, in this condition, he doubts she’d be willing to accept _the Doctor_ as an answer. The last thing she needs is a nameless mystery man she has no reason to trust muddling up the works and further complicating her life.

"John." She tries the name out, and he can tell it feels wrong on her lips by the way they purse around the title like it’s something sour and unfamiliar. It sounds wrong to his ears, too, but he somehow resists the urge to flinch. "Sorry. Not ringing any bells." She admits, disappointed.

“That’s alright, maybe it’ll come to you.” Maybe any minute now it will all come racing back and she’ll throw her head back and laugh in that way she does that warms his bones. Seconds tick by, heavy, daunting, and unpleasant, like some impossible weight being dragged through the sands of eternity. “The man you killed, or didn’t kill, what do the books say about him?”

“Not much really.” Her lips purse, looking back at the pages upon pages of days she can’t remember living. “A few references here and there to an Oncoming Storm, The Valeyard, and one account referred to him as a Beast.” A playful tone comes over her as she adds, “Doesn’t sound all that nice, truthfully. I don’t know why they sent me to prison for it.”

It’s his turn to force out a hollow laugh, head spinning with all the ways deleting himself from history had been a bad idea. The Cyberplanner had been right, he had left his legacy vulnerable to being rewritten. “Well time has a way of shaping history, maybe he wasn’t as bad as he seems.” He offers, then quickly realizes he’s just offhandedly defended the storybook villain. “Or maybe he was. What do I know?” He amends, fidgeting under the scrutiny of her piercing green eyes. “Oh look, is that a Bactron6000? Haven’t seen one of those in a while.” Looking anywhere but her, he makes his way across the room to look through her medical reports. It's a welcome distraction. Data and statistics and facts are child's play in comparison to the complexity of a woman, especially this woman with her curls and her quirks and her curves.

"How am I looking?” She asks, and his attention snaps back to her, eyes taking the opportunity to greedily wash across her person. They travel from her face to her toes and back again, really looking at her up close for the first time in decades. Most of her is buried beneath blankets and books and what isn’t is covered by a dingy hospital gown. But that hardly matters to him. To him she always looks, “Amazing.”

An elegant brow arches at him as an amused smirk curls her lips. “I meant the charts. You are a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, right. I am.” He clears his throat, “In a manner of speaking.”

“You’re very young to be a doctor.”

“I’m not as young as I look.”

“Excellent. Then you wont mind giving me my sponge bath.”

His nonexistent eyebrows nearly shoot off his face, his mouth bobbing open and closed like a fish.

A genuine laugh escapes her lips, brightening the room and delighting his ears. “I’m only joking, sweetie.” She offers, and his stomach does somersaults at the familiar endearment.

“I knew that!” He argues, no doubt betrayed by the blush creeping up his ears. “I was just…”

“There was just about to be a John shaped hole in the wall.” River teases. “But it’s alright. The staff here, bless them, are rather dull. I needed the entertainment, and you’re rather precious.”

 _Precious?_ He is not precious. He is intimidating and terrible and dangerous. He is the Doctor, the most feared man in history, and… and he has half a mind to tell her so when, “So John, tell me about yourself. Who are you to me?”

 _Oh, right._ To her he is just a skinny stranger with bad dress sense. Putting down the printouts, he runs a hand through his hair. "I'm..." he faulters, unsure of how to describe everything they were to each other. _He's_ _the man who sent her to the damn Library in the first place. He's the man she killed but didn't really, but no one knows anything about that because technically he doesn't exist. He's her husband. Her lover. Her friend._ "I'm just someone you trust. Or used to at least."

“Well you’re my first visitor, don’t leave me in suspense. How did we meet?”

He exhales a heavy breath before answering. “Through your parents, I suppose.” 

The memory tugs at the corners of his mind, a smile threatening his lips. _The air is rich with the aroma of dry corn stalk and the rumbling engine of a red sports car. The sun blinds his eyes, a silhouette above him, as an unfamiliar voice purrs, "You said he was funny. You never said he was hot."_

“We did some traveling together," the Doctor answers. 

“Oh?” River asks, intrigued. “Where did you go?”

“All over really.” He can’t help the smile that creeps up his lips at the memories. “One time we went to ArdebitSol, and your mother got so sunburned you could hardly tell her hair from her face.”

His smile must be infectious because she’s smiling, too, when she asks, “She had red hair then?”

“The reddest.” He confesses sweetly, and River’s smile turns wistful, gazing off into the distance as if to picture it, as if a portrait of her mother hangs just out of sight and if she looks hard enough she’ll see through the blandly colored walls and find exactly what her eyes long to see. The Doctor finds himself feeling suddenly guilty at the realization that his best friends only exist in his imagination, that he doesn’t have a picture to show her. No old photographs or souvenirs of his Ponds tucked away in his pockets, no sentimental keepsakes or letters or drawings. “River,” he says suddenly. “Where’s your diary?” Surely her diary would have sketches. If anything could show her what she needed to see, could bring back her memory, it would be her diary.

Her eyes snap back to his, confused. "My what?"

“A small, blue book. Very old.” He clarifies, but he’s already begun his search, rummaging through her pile of books and papers.

She sits up after him, brow furrowed with concern. “I haven’t seen one. Is it important?”

He drops to all fours, searching frantically under her bed, but there’s nothing but dust and darkness. Sitting up on his knees, his eyes find hers, voice grave as he says, "River, right now, finding that diary may be the most important thing in the universe.”

For a moment, she looks stunned. But their eyes stay locked, both seeming to ask the same questions: _Where could it be? And if she doesn’t have it, then who does?_

Suddenly, the ground beneath them quakes, and in the distance they can hear the chilling sound of screams.


	3. The Path to Heaven Runs Through Miles of Clouded Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherever they go, trouble surely follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from It's Time by Imagine Dragons

 

“I got my heart's desire, and there my troubles began.”   
― Lev Grossman, The Magicians[ _  
_](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6278977)

* * *

 

Suddenly, the ground beneath them quakes, and in the distance they can hear the chilling sound of screams.

 

 

Without missing a beat, the Doctor is on his feet and looking out into the hallway, where a handful of doctors and nurses are scurrying frantically around the corner, out of sight, and towards the sounds of chaos. He pulls out his sonic, scanning the system for security malfunctions because why has no one made an evacuation announcement yet? And the alarms really should have been tripped by now and- 

Another explosion, smaller this time and definitely from within the hospital, rocks the ground beneath his feet. Glass panels rattle in their grooves, dust rains down from the cracks in the ceiling, and a static charge tingles across his skin. 

"What the hell is that?" River asks,  untangling herself from the sheets and climbing out of bed.

Sonic still buzzing, the Doctor’s jaw clenches. Whoever it was, was emitting a signal disrupting the hospital's alarm frequency, which could only mean one thing, "Trouble." He answers. “Stay here.”

River scoffs , already removing the various monitors strapped to her person. “You think I'm just going to sit here? It sounds like we’re under attack out there!” 

“Which is exactly why you should  _stay here_."

Her arms fold in front of her, brow arching challengingly. “Because I’m a woman?”

"Because..." He stutters, arms flailing in her general direction.  “Because you’re half dressed!”

"All the more reason to not let you have all the fun." She grins, marching past him defiantly.  He briefly considers arguing, but if experience has taught him anything, it's that nothing can change River's mind once it's made up. Marching out into unknown danger, scantily clad and without any semblance of a plan, is so typically River. It's dangerous and foolish and if he’s honest with himself, he loves every minute of it. 

He can smell her perfume as she drifts by and his eyes follow her as she passes. They track over the hair draping across her shoulders and back, where the hospital gown has been left open. It's spread wide at the top, revealing her shoulder blades and rib cage, but it pinches into a V near her hips, drawing his eyes down the exposed expanse of her back. All the golden skin he hasn't seen in decades on display before his very eyes. The curve of her waist and the flare of her hips and dip in her lower back where he used to rest his hand and just below that-

His eyes go wide at his own thoughts. "At least put this on." He blurts, shedding his coat and offering it to her.

River rolls her eyes, but takes it. He can practically read her mind even without a psychic connection. Annoyance depicted by the exasperated huff she gives because  _honestly, the hospital is under attack. This is hardly the time for modesty._  But her movements are fluid, careful as she slips it on, expressing that never ending patience he thinks she developed just for dealing with him.  She doesn't give him time to admire her, which is a shame. He likes the look of her swaddled in his coat, the purple somehow bringing out the green in her eyes, the shoulders just a little too wide, and sleeves just a little too long. He likes seeing her in something of his, looking sheltered and warm.

But she's already reaching for the door, headed out into god knows what, completely unarmed and, "Wait!" He leaps in front of her, "Let me go first."

"And they say chivalry is dead." She drawls in mock adoration.

"Not dead, no. Just-" he pauses, voice lowering. "River, do you hear that?"

"I don't hear anything."

"Exactly. What happened to the screaming?" It's gone quiet, no more shaking walls or distant shouting. Pushing open the door and poking his head out into the empty hallway, his ears are met with silence. There is nothing, no alarms, no beeping machinery, no voices calling out over the intercom, only the eerie absence of sound. The kind of heavy stillness at the eye of a storm, hanging in the air like a warning of oncoming disaster. His hand finds hers instinctively, whispering, "Stay close." 

They pass other patients, who sleep behind the shelter of glass, blissfully unaware. They pass lounges and reception desks, but the staff are no where to be seen, tasks left unfinished and discarded. "What happened to everyone?" River asks quietly. 

The Doctor runs a scan with his sonic again, "They're gone." He answers, eyes narrowed at his sonic.

"Gone? What do you mean gone?"

"I mean the staff is gone. Teleported away."

"But why?"

Up ahead he spots another reception desk, this one in a far worse state than the others, like it's been ravaged and purposefully torn apart. "Maybe they're looking for something and didn't want to be disturbed."

"Probably medicine." She reasons. "High activity hospitals like this keep pretty good stock on their drugs. Find the right buyer and you'd be looking at a very pretty price tag."

He opens his mouth to ask how she knows that, but decides he probably wouldn't like the answer. Opting instead for companionable silence as they make their way. There are no people or sounds, just them and the rhythmic falling of their feet on the tile floor. He finds the subtle noise comforts him, the rubbery squeak of his shoes combined with the soft patting of her bare feet. He has to stop himself from remembering all the times dinner took a wayward turn and she'd have to ditch her heels in order to run or jump or scale an imposing cliff face. She'd always bring those times up in arguments, how much money he'd cost her in abandoned foot wear.

" _Well if you'd wear something more practical.."_

_"If **you**  could make it through a meal without insulting the local aristocracy, it wouldn't be a problem!"_

He's so lost in thought he almost doesn't hear the much more menacing sound of boots crunching against the floor. Luckily, one of his twenty seven brains is paying attention enough to tighten his grip on River's hand and tug her into a nearby supply closet, closing the door behind them.

"This is hardly the time for seven minutes in heaven." River hisses.

"Shh!" He scolds. "Someone's coming!"

It's not a janitorial closet like the one he'd parked his ship in. This one is filled with gauze, medicines, and other various medical supplies. It's smaller, much smaller, and with the two of them smushed in there together, there's hardly room to breathe, much less move.

Small ventilation slats in the door allow for thin streams of light to spill in, illuminating the small space just enough for him to see the silhouette of her face, golden hair lit up like a halo. The lack of vision seems to make his other senses compensate and outside he can clearly hear the growing sound of footsteps. Cataloging as many clues as he can, the Doctor takes note of  _two different pairs of feet, bipedal, long stride, hints of vanilla, probably humanoid, and is that a new shampoo._ It's incredibly hard to focus with her so close. His over sensitive nose and body taking note of every subtle move she makes. Their chests are practically touching and he can feel the heat of her body and her warmth of her breath as it ghosts across his neck and she's half dressed and she really does look good in purple. Maybe he'll buy her a violet gown, with sequins so it will sparkle like the Cartwheel Nebula, and she can wear her red shoes. Do red shoes go with purple dresses?

"It sounds like they're getting closer." River whispers, and he snaps back to the task at hand. Was it always so hard to focus around River? Or was he just hyper aware of every movement because he'd been without it for so long, deprived of sight and sound and now he's been thrust before symphonies and everything is technicolor and she's standing so very close he's sure he could count the colors in her eyes if only there were enough light to see them by.

Outside, the sound of muffled voices floats through the slats in the door. They must be splitting up because one set of footsteps is fading while the other grows steadily nearer. River shifts, the tiniest fraction of movement, and he realizes their fingers are still entwined, hands clasped together and pinned between their bodies. He flexes, holding her just a little tighter, and she clutches him back. The small reassurance makes his hearts beat a tattoo in his chest, their pounding so loud he's sure it can be heard echoing down the halls. But her hand is in his, solid and comforting, and he's having trouble caring about anything else.

A shadow passes over the door and both their breaths freeze in their chests. Any moment the door will swing open. Any second they'll be discovered.

They wait.

 

But nothing happens, the figure just stands there, back to the door.

"What now?" River mouths, looking up at him expectantly.

Possible outcomes race through his head: they could ambush him. Nothing better than the element of surprise, unless he's armed or calls for back up or- scratch that. Maybe it's best to just wait. But for how long? He had to leave sometime right? Eventually they'd get what they came for and go. But the rest of the hospital could be in danger and this is an awfully small space to be pressed up against so much half dressed River and- suddenly her hand detangles from his, somehow managing to pick up jars and bottles and mix various fluids without making a sound.

"What are you doing?" He whispers.

"Getting us out of here." She whispers back, screwing the cap back on whatever concoction she's made. 

"How? Spritsing him to death?"

"Shh!" She hisses. Then she's pressing into him, shifting her body as much as possible to get the hand armed with her spray bottle facing the slats in the door. She nudges him and he looks down to find her eyeing him expectantly. Her other hand has pulled the collar of his coat up to shield her nose and mouth and- oh! His hands snap up to cover his own mouth, holding his breath.

Ever so quietly, she taps the nozzle on the door. It's a quiet rasp, just enough to draw attention; and when the man instinctively turns around, she sprays the liquid through the slats in the door. Instantly, the shadow that had fallen over the door disappears with a soft grunt and the distinct thud of a body collapsing to the floor. 

Even with the dim lighting, he can see River grin, smug satisfaction spreading across her cheeks. She holds her position, and after a moment when no one comes to his aid, she pushes open the door and crouches beside the guard.

"What did you do to him?" The Doctor asks, following after.

"Just a mild sedative." She answers flippantly. "Well, mild for a horse. He'll be fine in a few hours." By the time the Doctor kneels beside her, she's already relieved the man of his weapons and substituted her spray bottle for a blaster. The Doctor, however, is far more interested in the communicator strapped to the man's belt.

"I'm going to go check on his friend." She announces, standing as she adjusts the settings on her new toy. 

"Don't wander off." He instructs, already sonicing away at the device. She ignores him, of course, already half way down the hall, weapon at the ready.

The Doctor sighs, getting back to his task. He doesn't know why he bothers to speak some times. They never listen. It's like his voice resonates on a frequency above human ears.

Luckily for him, at least his sonic obeys, easily locating the disruption frequency the communicator is emitting to block the hospital's distress alarm. He cuts  off the signal, but only allows the silent alarm to trigger, which should hopefully keep the mystery invaders oblivious long enough for help to arrive.

The subject before him is in all black, no discerning marks or tattoos, no symbols or badges to allocate him to a service or employer. He is human though, 51st century judging by the smell and synthetic fabrics. The Doctor probes a little deeper into the system with his sonic, bringing forth a 3D hologram. The grainy blue-grey graphics flickering to life, rotating slowly before him to reveal the unmistakable image of River Song. The sight steals his breath because it's not a matter of what they're looking for, it's  _who_.

"Coast is clear." She announces, and he cuts the connection before she can see over his shoulder. "What was that?"

"Nothing." He flashes a quick smile, trying his best not to look like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "Come on." He adds, standing and tucking the communicator in his pocket for later dissection. 

They continue to make their way carefully through the halls when River breaks the silence by asking, "Why just teleport the staff? Why not the patients, too? I hardly think it was a sense of moral obligation." 

"I don't know." He lies. And for once, he really doesn't want to stick around and find out what they'll do should they find what they came for. "But we need to get out of here. Now."

"How exactly? This place is locked down.”  

 

"I have a plan." He answers, opening door after door of patients rooms, offices, and supply closets.

"Which is?" She prompts, incredulously, watching him like he's mad.

"My ship." He spins around, distracted. "I'm sure I parked her around here somewhere. Why do all hospitals look the sa-" and bless his clumsy feet because in the next second there's a loud bang, followed by a bright light, and he finds himself sprawled across the floor, looking up at the wall, a black char mark where his head should have been. "River, no!" He shouts, watching in horror as she retaliates by sending a hail of messon bursts at their attackers. They return fire and the Doctor scrambles to his feet, grabbing River and diving around a corner.

Why was there always, always shooting? And guns! He hates guns! Wells, not so much River's guns, but that always leads to her getting shot at and he definitely hates it when people shoot at his wife. Though, they usually don't get a chance to do it twice. Then it occurs to him, "You missed." He blurts, suddenly worried. "Why did you miss? You never miss." 

"I'm sorry!" River grunts sarcastically before throwing more cover fire around the corner. "Maybe I'm having an off day. Sue me!" Nonono, this was all wrong. River Song did not have 'off days'. "And," she adds, looking back at him with frustration. "I don't see you doing anything about the situation!"

"Right! Right, sorry!" Think, Doctor, think. His eyes snap around the corridor, looking for anything that could be of use. Fire extinguishers and frivolous wall decor and "ER" signs. " _ER" signs!_ Of course. His eyes land on the opposite end of the hall, where the small janitorial closet waits like a beacon of hope.

"Come along, Professor.” He exclaims, grabbing her hand and sprinting down the hall. Phaser fire bounces and ricochets, sparking off walls as they barrel through the closet doors. He leaves River no time for  criticisms about half concocted escape plans  or snarky remarks about getting her alone in dark places, rushing her into the TARDIS and out of harms way. 

"See," he pants, once inside with their backs against the safety of the TARDIS doors. "Told you I had a plan."

The Doctor pushes off the door, heading for the console. He wants to ask her what she thinks of the new desktop, the grey-blue lights and elegant, polished controls. It's a far cry from the  golden, tawdry design he used with the Ponds all those years ago. He wants to ask her if it needs more round things. He loves the round things. But he doesn't. She wouldn't remember anyway. 

"What about everyone else?" She asks, following him around the room.

"I soniced the communicator and cut off what was blocking the signals to authorities. Local law enforcement will be here any minute."

"Then why do we have to leave?"

"Because I have the funniest feeling they'll be back."

"Get into these situations often, do you?"

"More often than you'd think." Suddenly he stops in his tracks, spinning around to look down at her, eyes intense and burning as he invades her personal space.

“Whats the matter with you?” She asks, brow furrowed, but she doesn’t back away. 

“You’re not freaked out by this. You’re in a ship that’s bigger on the inside with a mad man in a bow tie that you hardly know. Why are you not freaked out by this?”

She scoffs, “I did just come back from the dead. It's hardly the strangest thing that's happened to me lately.”

“But it's…” he gestures wildly, arms flailing, “bigger.” She's supposed to say it's bigger. They always say it's bigger. That’s his favorite part.

River rolls her eyes, stepping past him. “If you think being bigger on the inside is a rare occurrence, you've clearly never rummaged through women's handbags." She looks back at him playfully as she examines the console. "I just assumed it was a dimensionally transcendental.” Naturally,  _that_  she remembers. “Only ever heard them theorized, though.” She looks almost transfixed, and he can't help but wonder if the TARDIS is singing in her mind, projecting soft, welcoming vibes into the soul of her child that's finally come home. Delicate fingers stroke over the console, and the ship hums at the familiar touch. “Sentient?” She asks, and he nods, watching her carefully. “Wherever did you get it?”

A smirk crawls up his cheeks, because surely this will impress her. “I stole it.”

She laughs, any trance she may have been in vanishing. “No really. Where?”

“I did! I’m a right rebel, me.”

She gives him a once over, eyes studying him until he's burning from the tips of his toes to the flop of his fringe. “Fine, don’t tell me." She huffs, having decided he's nothing short of harmless. "But listen, I can't just go running off like this. I need-"  

"Forget the hospital." He interrupts, spinning around the console as he inputs coordinates. "You'll never get your memories sitting in a bed, waiting around for them to come back. We need to go get them. And this is also a time machine, did I mention? So we’ll have all of time and space to work with. Wont get that offer anywhere else,” with one final flip of a switch, he sends them into the vortex and spins around to face her, voice dropping low and flashing his most charming smile. “So what do you say, River Song?  Shall we go get your memories back, and maybe make a few new ones along the way?" 

River inhales deeply through her nose, chest swelling, excitement building, smile growing. Maybe there's an upside to this. Maybe he can finally wow her the way he's always wanted. Maybe he can- 

"That's lovely, but actually I meant I can't go anywhere like  _this_.” She says flatly, gesturing to her clothes. “I need to stop by my house first. You think I’d want to stay in that dull place? I've been itching for a way out since I got there." All he can do is blink at her as she carries on. "The one time I leave home without my vortex manipulator. It's lucky you came along really." She tosses him a wink. "You're a good a taxi as any." 

"Oh, right." He was silly to think he could treat River Song like an average companion, that she would be so easily impressed. A tiger was still a tiger if you took away it's stripes. A very rare tiger that’s quite precious to him and currently being hunted by god knows who for god knows why. And if someone's looking for her they're bound to try her home first and, "No wait!" He blurts, then attempts to school his panic by leaning casually against the console. "You don't need to change. That's a great look on you." She arches a brow and he swallows, "Tweed, always in fashion."

At his floundering, a smirk curls her lips. "Fashion faux pas aside, I'd rather my own clothes thanks."

He can't exactly tell her she has her own clothes on the TARDIS… right next to his, in their closet, in the bedroom they share because they're married. But hey, no pressure. And any more arguing would be suspicious. She has no reason to trust him yet, no solid evidence that they really even know each other, so he relents, imputing the coordinates to her house with a silent promise that they'll leaving at the first sign of trouble.

"Do you practice that little speech in front of a mirror? I'll bet you do."

His head snaps up to find her watching him, arms crossed and lips curled. "No! Of course not."

She grins "That's a yes."

"I don't!" He protests again. "It's just the nature of the speech. Offering people planets and stars and all of history and- and what are you laughing at?"

"That's definitely a yes." She teases, her laughter rich and throaty. "For the record, time travel isn't all that uncommon. Honestly, it's not like you invented it.”

His lips purse. Well, not him personally, but his people and he's the last one so surely that grants him some bragging rights. But the point becomes mute as he feels the ship shudder to a landing. He rushes to the door, cracking it open just enough to fit his screwdriver. 

 

"What are you doing now?" River huffs.

"A thing." He answers, sonic waving wildly, scanning for any signs of life, alien technology, or anything else out of the ordinary. 

"Yes, I can see that. What  _thing_?"

"Just... Scanning for badgers." He lies.

"Badgers aren't even native to this planet."

"Well, one can never be too careful when badgers are concerned." He explains, examining the readings from the sonic. There's no evidence of alien technology, no acrid smell of residual transmit energy lingering in the air, no faint tingling left behind from use of vortex manipulators, no signs whatsoever of a waiting army or ambush. Temporarily reassured, he offers her a weak smile.

"Are you quite finished?" She asks, brow creased and arms folded. 

He salutes by way of answer, and she rolls her eyes but he can see the smile she’s fighting as she pushes past him. The doors open, revealing the quaint but cozy cottage she calls home. Night has fallen, but twin moons hang high in the sky, their residual light providing enough of a glow to make out the outline of her home. It sits near a cliff face, overlooking a perpetually angry sea. The only sound pervading the darkness is the roaring of waves as they crash and spill over jagged rocks below. He's not entirely sure what he was expecting, maybe dust settled shelves, overgrown grass, and neglected plants, something abandoned and forgotten. But he wasn't expecting this, for the familiarity to hit him like a slap to the face. It's exactly as it's always been, even after all these years, every shutter and corner a memory of " _River, we have to decorate. It's Christmas!"_

_"Sweetie," she says patiently, "there's decorating, then there's what you do."_

_"Nothing wrong with a little enthusiasm." He chides, a wreath around his neck and knee deep in colorful lights._

_"There is when planes start landing on us."_

 _"That was once! and they only **almost** landed on us."_

 

The soles of his shoes crunch against a cobblestone walkway, the sound of it like the pre chorus of a long forgotten tune, and to his sides, a small army of sunflowers lead the way to a bright blue door. It could be the epilogue to any of a thousand nights, when they'd stumble in after a long day of running, when they'd laugh and bicker and her eyes would sparkle with happiness and starlight and he'd press her up against the solid blue surface and kiss her like his life depended on it.

It's only when his eyes drift back to her that he remembers why he's here, that he can't just scoop her up and step over the threshold. Instead, he watches like an awkward bystander as the identification plate reads her hand and clears her for entry. The highly advanced tech looks out of place on such a humble residence, but that's River for you, so much more than meets the eye and so very complicated on the inside. 

Motion sensors trigger the lights automatically,  illuminating the room before they even step inside. It still smells like her, still feels warm and lived in because the house never knew she died. It never assumed she was gone and wasn't coming back. It never thought to start collecting dust, to become detached and worn down. It never learned to live without her. And in that respect, he finds himself envious of carpeted floors and soft sheets that never had to go a day without the promise of her return.

The first thing River does is strip off his coat, slowly revealing a surplus of golden skin that he finds so very distracting. He tries not to look as she hangs it on the rack. He tries not to notice the way her muscles contract as she lifts her arms or how her calves flex as she stretches up on her tip toes. He won't be distracted by the arch of her lower back or the curve of her waist. He won't. He won't. He won't.

"I'm going to change." She announces and it may be the first time in his life he's been happy to hear River was going to put  _on_  clothes. "Make yourself at home." She offers, exiting the room and leaving him to wait awkwardly in her living room. 

He rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment before deciding to take a seat on the settee. He wiggles a moment, testing it's integrity. It's satisfactorily, bouncy and warm, and he crosses his legs, then uncrossed them, then crosses them again, and what are you supposed to do your legs while on these things? Are there instructions or directions for proper limb placement etiquette? He gives up, planting them firmly on the floor and tapping his fingers on the arm rest, then folds them in his lap, but that's no good at all because he's a big ball of nervous energy and were cushions really supposed to be this bouncy?

With a huff, he's on his feet again, restlessly pacing the room, when a splash of color catches his eye. He finds himself drawn to a collection of photographs on the wall. Most of them are moments he remembers well, snap shots of River and Rory, Amy and him, or some variation of the four of them. Days spent with her parents were just about the only things River thought were worth framing. The only exception being her first Archeology degree, which hangs discreetly in her room as a symbol of the first thing she accomplished in a life that would be all her own. But everything else, all her awards and medals and letters of thanks from far away ambassadors, sit in a box beneath her bed. Diamonds and rubies and rare gems tucked away in jewelry boxes as if they were simple trinkets. But moments with her parents, those were priceless. And she displayed them as carefully and as dearly as she remembered them. 

It isn't until her life is spread out before him that he notices there aren't as many pictures of the two of them as he would like. It's always been the four of them, pictures taken by a kind stranger, or in the few shots where it is just the two of them, it was taken by Amy or the Roman. In other words, parent friendly photographs where they're laughing or posing or bickering _because we don't need to ask for directions, River. We have a two thirds of a perfectly good map!_

There are no pictures from times when it was just them, always too busy running to pick up a camera or too intimate to risk documenting. He used to make a habit of trying not to leave a paper trail. The Ponds broke him of that, but River never pushed the matter, never insisted on photographs or postcards. He wishes now she would have, that there was more evidence of their life together than the whimsical stories of a mad man and a missing blue book.

Behind him, her bedroom door opens and he turns to see she's changed into pajamas. They're comfortable, practical, and shouldn't make him want to loosen his bow tie. But this is River and she could make a potato sack look appealing. He's so used to seeing her pajamas on the bedroom floor it's hard not to imagine them there now, and what she would look like relieved of all that soft cotton fabric. 

He shelves the thought, pasting a smile on his face as she makes her way over to join him. "Friends of ours?" She asks, eyes fixed on a picture of the four of them from Amy and Rory's wedding anniversary.

The answer almost chokes him. River was their daughter, their best friend. She grew up with them, then watched as they slowly got younger and younger right before her eyes. They were there when she regenerated. They were two of the first faces her current face ever saw, and she watched as tears tracked down Amy's cheeks when a stone angel sent them somewhere she could not follow.  River knew their faces better than she knew her own.

He swallows against the lump in his throat, "They're your parents."

Confusion furrows her brow. "But I'm older than them.”

"Yeah. The traveling I mentioned, it wasn't always chronological."

Verbally, she gives no reaction, but he can see the exact moment she catalogs the information, adding it to the growing list of things she'll process later, when she's alone with her thoughts and there's no one around to see her with her walls down. Some things never change.

"What are they like?” She asks, eyes studying each minute detail.

He relaxes, half smiling. Finally _,_ a question he's not nervous to answer. “Your mother, Amy, very stubborn. But strong. Scottish through and through. And Rory, well what can I say about Rory?" He sighs happily, "Loyal, brave, kind. The epitome of a good man.”

River hums, imagining the picture before her coming to life, day dreams standing in where treasured memories should be. His eyes stay fixed on her as her attention flutters from frame to frame, never once looking like she pities herself or feels angry at the universe for robbing her of such joyful moments. River truly is the best of both of them, with that little bit of extra thrown in, that sexy, spicy, untamable hint of time mingling with the best humanity had to offer.

Suddenly, her eyes light up, finally landing on a moment she recognizes. “My team from my first big expedition.” She explains, excited to be able to claim a memory as her own.

He listens intently as she recounts names and details and funny things that were said. He vaguely recalls hearing about the expedition, but it disturbs him that he doesn't remember any of their names. As he listens, he can't help but notice there are other pictures he’s never taken notice of before adorning the wall. All filled with faces he doesn’t recognize, her students, her friends, her colleagues, all the people in her life he doesn’t know.

For so long he ran from the title Professor. The very word a dagger dangling over his hearts, a sign her days were coming to a close, their time together was almost up. He ignored it, avoided it, pretended the days weren't slipping though his fingers. And River, as always, figured out that, for one reason or another, he was running from it and stopped talking about it altogether. She never mentioned, but knowing her, she probably thought it was because she was getting older. As if he cared about such things. All he cared about was keeping her. It's ironic that his desire to keep her only made her slip away faster, that his selfish tendencies ended up costing him the very moments he tried to keep. Because of his own foolish actions, she excluded him from precious moments of her life and instead gave pieces of herself to people he couldn't even name.

It occurs to him that he's never really  _looked_  at the details of her home before. He's been here sure, but never for long. He drops in like a stone skipping over water, upsetting peace, making ripples, then carelessly moving on. He thinks of all the times he's swanned in shouting  _'Get your coat! We're going dancing'_ , or ranting about  _an exploding Binary Star, River! Three billion light years away and if we don’t leave right this minute we’ll miss it!_  He thinks of all the times he took for granted, all the parts of her life he missed out on, how so much of her is still unsolved. It kills him that after all that time, after she knew him inside and out, she still held so many secrets. Not because she was hiding them away, but because he never bothered to ask.

"I guess that explains it.” She chuckles, and he looks up to find she's moved across the room to inspect another collection of photos. “You're one of those people that kiss everyone."

“What do you mean?” His asks, making his way over to her, where he discovers she’s looking at a photo from Christmas. To Rory’s great discomfort, he and the Doctor had found themselves under the mistletoe. Amy had been quick with the camera, snapping a photo just in time as the Doctor planted a very wet kiss to her husband's cheek. He remembers  _the roaring of the fireplace and the smell of turkey filling the air. His grin is wide and shameless, even as Rory wipes at his cheek like he's been covered in some hideous alien slime. "Why, Doctor? Why is it always me?"_

_When the hysterical laughter of the women dies down, River comes to his defense. "In fairness, dad, wouldn't you rather he kiss you than watch him snog one of us?"_

_"But why does he have to snog anyone?"_

_"Loosen up Rory!" Amy shouts, her Scottish drawl thickening with each glass of wine. "It's not Christmas till someone gets snogged!"_

 

“Before," River's much less merry voice shocks him back to the present. "When you broke into my hospital room, you kissed me and I thought that maybe…” she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.” He wants to say  _yes_  it does matter. It matters so very much. But she derails his thoughts almost immediately by asking, “Where are they now?”

He studies her, the way her fingers on her right hand rest on the glass, tracing over the figures like the warmth of their skin can be felt through the thin layer of glass. “New York.” The Doctor answers softly, almost afraid to speak above a whisper should she notice his throat has turned to sandpaper. 

"They'll be in for a bit of a shock when I turn up." His hearts almost beat out of his chest, mind working in overdrive to come up with an excuse for why they can’t go see them when she adds, "I think I'll wait until my memory comes back before I visit. I don’t want to worry them."

He swallows hard, relieved and somehow even more guilt ridden at seeing the light in her eyes, that spark of hope that means she thinks she lives in a universe where she can see them whenever she pleases. River doesn’t know that she can’t pop ‘round for tea or help with Christmas dinner, and he’ll be damned if he has any intention of telling her. He wont break her hearts twice, not unless he has to.

Clearing his throat, he says, “How about a cup of tea?”

She nods without looking up from the photograph, so he makes his way into the kitchen. He boils the kettle and locates her favorite cup on autopilot, extracting the milk and the sugar from their prospective cupboards like a well choreographed dance. He knows exactly how she takes it, just a dash of lemon and honey. It's a sharp contrast to his nearly white mixture of cream and three scoops of sugar. He convinced her to try it his way once, but she told him she much preferred the aftertaste to the actual product. And when he asked her what she meant, she pulled him to her and kissed him, her tongue slipping into his mouth and rolling against his own, the faintest hint of honey and zing of lemon busting across his tongue. The sweetness of her mouth betraying the bruising way her lips pressed against his, mapping his mouth and leaving no inch of it undiscovered. When she pulled away, she'd smirked and said  _see sweetie, you're sweet enough for the both of us._

Upon reentering the room and setting the drinks on the small coffee table, he spots her standing in front of the bookshelf, looking at a different collection of photographs. 

“Where was this taken?” She asks, passing the  photograph to him.

He smiles instantly, remembering the day as one of his favorites. "The Lake District. 1927."

He’s the one taking the picture, one arm holding the camera out in front of him, a goofy smile plastered to his face, while the other points to the Ponds in the background. Amy and Rory are fawning over River, who at the time was still a fresh faced University student. There was nothing particularly special about the day. No monsters to beat or planets to save. The four of them together was all the adventure they needed. It wasn’t a particularly good picture either, since three quarters of the occupants weren’t aware it was being taken, but it was the first time they’d all been out together as a family, or at least when they all knew they were a family. Maybe that’s why she felt the need to keep it, so she would never forget that she finally found her family.

“It’s labeled.” She notices, taking it from him and flipping it to reveal the backside of the photograph where   _Mum, Dad, The Doctor, and Me_  is written in permanent ink.

"The Doctor?” She asks, wrinkling her brow.

"Uh, yeah.” He says tentatively, a nervous hand running through his hair. “A bit of a nickname that’s stuck around.”

Her eyes find his again, curious and green. “Is that what I called you?”

He nods. “When you weren’t cross with me, that is.”

She chuckles, ”And what did I call you then?”

“A very colorful spectrum of things. You’re quite creative with your insults.”

She laughs again, brighter this time, before replacing the photograph and taking a seat on the settee. Her hands wrap around the small cup and she lifts it to her face, inhaling the bone warming essence that is a good cup of tea. He follows after, taking a seat in the chair nearest to him. He tries not to stare, to focus on his tea, but it’s hard convincing his eyes not to be greedy when all he wants is to take in as much of her as he can.

He wonders if she'll taste different. Not the raw ingredients that make up River, of course: tangy like time, sweet like champagne, and tart like trouble. He knows those flavors will still be there, still dance across his tongue and delight his taste buds. It's the bitterness he wonders about, that hollow aftertaste that clung to his tongue every time they parted. He thinks that would be gone this time, that if he touched his lips to hers all he would taste is the next hundred thousand years of his life. If their bodies and lips were lined up as linear as their timelines now are, he thinks she would taste like infinity. 

More than anything he wants to find out. He wants her lips to quirk into a smirk and her eyes to beckon him to her. He wants to crash his mouth against hers and press her to him so tight they meld into one being. He wants to kiss her, hold her, keep her.

But for now he’ll make do with opposite ends of a coffee table. He’ll sustain himself on the smile that forms as the drink touches her lips and the hum of approval she gives as the heat of it warms her from the inside out.

Here in her own home, in her own clothes, and surrounded by her own things, she looks much more at ease. She needed this, something familiar. But the comfort of home has put cracks in her walls and allowed fatigue to seep through in the form of heavy eyelids and slow, deep breaths.

"You should sleep." He suggests quietly. "We don’t want you getting any worse.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She consents without even arguing, a true testimony to how tired she must be. “I suppose I do have a big day of remembering my life tomorrow.”

"You absolutely do" He declares, setting his untouched cup down with a soft thud. “ I call dibs on the settee, and that’s final. I don’t care how sick you are, you’re not saddling me with the big comfy bed. So off you pop. Doctor’s orders.”

She offers him her trademark amused, but indulgent smile, and for a moment it feels like it used to. When she would tease and he would try to flirt, when she would crook her finger and he would trip over his feet to get to her. It feels like all the other moments when she would offer him a smile that made him a slave to her every whim, when she would pull him behind closed doors and kiss him senseless or render him speechless with the tone of her voice.

But she does none of those things. Instead she places her now empty cup back on the table, stands, and makes her way to the bedroom without him.

“You never did say,” she turns, halfway through her bedroom door, “how did you know to find me?"

“I thought you sent me a message." He confesses, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "But obviously not.”

"If it wasn’t me, that means someone else must want us together. Why?”

These were really the kinds of questions he should have been asking, rather than ogling his amnesia inflicted wife. "All questions for tomorrow. Tonight, you should try to rest."

She nods in understanding, then offers him a small smile, "Good night, Doctor.”

“Goodnight River.” He smiles back, watching as she turns away once again. But she pauses, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Thank you." She adds. "For coming when you thought I called."

His smile widens. "Anytime." 

With that she steps into her room, and just like that the distance between them doesn't feel so daunting. Suddenly the closed door is just a door, delicate wood that can be opened and stepped inside. They can have it all again. Nothing is lost or forgotten so long as it can be remembered, his Ponds taught him that. Eventually, River will remember. And like his Ponds, he's willing to wait as long as it takes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone cares, the Cartwheel Nebula is a real thing. Look it up. It's beautiful.


	4. Caught Between Forever and Nothing At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone out there is still reading this story, I'm so sorry this update took so long! I hope it's worth the wait. 
> 
> And one more thing, if you haven't already, you need to check out [Echoes of Pain; Shadows of Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2763518/chapters/6197087) It's angsty and it's beautiful and you need it in your life. Without further ado...

 

 

“Clocks slay time. Time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels. Only when the clock stops does time come to life.”- William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

* * *

 

The first thing he does is upgrade the security system, which, to her credit, is already quite impressive. But that's no surprise, really. When one indulges in the type of activities River is prone to, the appropriate precautions have to be taken. He does what he can though, and after he’s satisfied the house is secure, he sets to examining the communicator he relieved from the guard. 

He attempts to sonic the device the way he had before, to fish through the files and see what or who was after River, but his efforts prove useless while out of range from the master device. No matter how he fiddles with the settings, the word “Offline” remains, flashing lamely on the screen. It's not all bad news, though. As long as they remain out of range, they can’t be tracked. With some clever jiggery pokery, he even manages to cut off the transmitters, turning the device into a one way communicator, which, in theory would allow him to detect any other devices in range while simultaneously leaving his own communicator invisible. But it’s a far cry from what he hoped to gain from his only real lead. 

He takes to more basic means of gaining insight by running his fingers carefully over the cool surface, reading each chip and scrape like braille in an attempt to decipher its secrets. He holds it up to his face, inhaling deeply and processing its sharp, metallic, and vaguely acrid smell. He even employs his tongue, taste his most trustworthy sense. As he drags his tongue across the surface, his taste buds burst with the overridding flavor of metal. But there's something else too, a salty tang he identifies as human sweat. The guard must have been nervous when he held it, which is fair enough seeing as he was rendered unconscious by the very woman they sought to capture. The Doctor licks it a few more times for careful measure, but apart from the residue all 51st century humans leave behind, there's no telling evidence. No outstanding tastes or smells that might originate from a particular planet. No identifying markers he could trace back to a distributor.  Whoever these people were, they knew how to cover their tracks.  

Tucking the device back in his pocket, he sighs, eyes scanning uselessly around the room, quite unsure what to do with himself now that he's spent of helpful tasks. It’s oddly quiet. No humming ship to fill background noise. No curious companions poking in rooms they really ought to steer clear of. All he has for company is the slow and steady ticking of the clock. With a defeated sigh, the Doctor stretches his long body out across the settee, hoping to steal a few hours sleep. His gangly limbs are too long for it though, and he finds himself shifting, legs dangling off the armrest and brain too full of stuff to achieve any rest. 

Who were these people? And for what point and purpose did they need River? Perhaps it was nothing, a misunderstanding. Half the Galaxy was after River for one reason or another. She was a distinguished professor, an admired adventurer, and a notorious trouble maker. People always wanted something from her, be it her autograph, her help, or her head on a platter. Although, to his great discomfort, something deep in his bones had him leaning toward the latter.

He shifts again, an eye peaking open to glance at the clock, and groans to discover only four minutes have passed. He buries his face into a cushion, pleasantly surprised as traces of her perfume delight his senses. Only then does he find himself relaxing, mind floating in and out of old memories. His thoughts flitter through the countless occasions they’d come tumbling through her front door, kissing and touching and tossing clothes about the room until they collapsed upon this very settee, lacking willpower to make it to the bedroom. There were quieter times, too, when they would talk for hours, curled up together innocently, her head on his lap and his fingers tangled in her curls. And one dreadful night in particular stands out above the rest. They fought, she stormed out, and he kicked the couch in anger, succeeding in nothing but hurting his own toe. For the life of him, he can’t remember why they were fighting. But he remembers her face like it was yesterday, flushed with anger and tears building behind those green eyes.

The ticking clock leads other images, unbidden and unwanted into his thoughts. Back to a time when  _her eyes shine, glossy and green. She looks like an angel, all in white and a crown of thorns atop golden hair. A pulsing screen counts down her seconds and loving eyes swim with tears that she cries, not for her death or for herself, never for herself, but for him. It’s all for him. Ninety seconds. "This means you've always known how I was going to die." She spins him a tale of towers that sing  and nights worth dying for. Twelve seconds. “You have all of that to come.” She comforts him in her final moments, this guardian who knows his name. Three seconds. “Hush now." She even spares him a smile. "Spoilers.”_

He has to open his eyes then, cutting off the vision lurking just behind his lids, a terrible scene that’s burned into his memory and has haunted his nightmares for hundreds of years. He doesn’t want to dwell on it now, not when she is in the next room, alive and sleeping and the ticking clock sounds more like _a heart monitor, beeping its steady, even pace. Amy and Rory stand with him by her bedside, and "She is going to be amazing." The monitor ticks again and now he's accompanied by an angry nurse and guards and she's right there and yet he cannot touch her and "River please tell me you know who I am."_  And the clock won't stop ticking!

It's absolutely maddening. Whose idea was it anyway, to put such an irritating noise on such a fruitless device? What did humans find so interesting about clocks? Did they really need some relentless ticking to prove that time was passing? It's silly really. Humans think they can own everything, that if they slap a label and regulations and rules on it it's theirs. But time doesn't care about the rules of man. It slips by with or without the hands of a clock.

And tonight, for the Doctor in particular, it seems to tick by mercilessly. The seconds feel like days and turning wheels have never sounded so ear shatteringly loud. He hates being still, when time passes so tediously and in the right order. The clock must sense his frustration and is actively taunting him, running in some alternate reality where time doesn't pass at all and he'll be stuck forever in this linear purgatory. He rearranges the furniture so he doesn't have to look at it, which only makes it tick louder and slower and sassier. But the Doctor has the last laugh, chucking it out the window and very nearly off the side of the cliff. What did River need a clock for anyway?

He lingers by the open window, scrutinizing the horizon for any sign of morning. But there are no  hues of pink or pale blue creeping up from behind an endless sea. There is only the blanket of night and the sparkle of distant stars. The Doctor's eyes fall longingly on the TARDIS. It's tempting to leave, to pop ahead just a few hours. What harm could it do? With all the extra security, she'd be perfectly safe until morning. 

_"Will she be safer if I stay?" Rory asks him, voice as gentle as the eyes caressing over the prison preserving the love of his life. "Look me in the eye and tell me she wouldn't be safer?"_

_"Rory, you-"_

_"Answer me!" Rory silences him, resolve written in the way his jaw flexes and eyes burn._

_"Yes. Obviously." The Doctor sighs._

_Rory turns back to the Pandorica, eyes boring into the stone, trying to see the precious cargo suspended inside. "Then how could I leave her?"_

The Doctor’s own jaw sets, releasing a long sigh out through his nose. Rory always knew the right thing, mind never clouded with doubt or grey areas. There was only ever right and wrong and what must be done and what was unthinkable. The Doctor always found strength in his friends, but no one quite like he did with Rory, eternally loyal and honest and brave. The type of man the Doctor aspired to be. If Rory the Roman could wait two thousand years, the Doctor could wait a few more hours. He pulls the curtains closed, spinning around to face the room, determination settling into his bones.

The new found silence gives his mind permission to wander. Who wanted them together? What happens now? And where do they go from here if she can't remember where they've been? His mind is so full of _what_ 's and _where_ 's and _how_ 's that he barely has rooms for  _why_. Or maybe he just doesn't want to think about that, about why she can't remember. If it's an incomplete download and the data really is lost, there's no way to get her memories back.

He holds onto hope that it’s just an injury, that she just needs time to heal. With encouragement and the right stimuli, all her memories will come flooding back. The right touch or smell or corny joke will light up her face and she'll look at him with shinning eyes like she used to. One minute they'll be strangers and the next she will be in his arms, laughing at the idea that she ever called him John.

Then there's the darker thought that keeps poking in the back of his mind, the one he doesn't want to think about. _"The brain tends to block out painful things. It's a defense mechanism."_  Did she mean to forget him? Did she choose this? After everything he put her through, had she finally decided she was better off without him? He wouldn't blame her if she did. 

He buries the unpleasant thoughts, taking instead to passing the time like a reasonable adult. He's selfish, so until she orders him away, he's not going anywhere. His feet lead him to the kitchen, where he washes the dishes waiting in her sink. After that he upgrades the efficiency of her cabinets, putting the pans where the plates were and the plates where the bowls had been and the cups where bowls should be, and he doesn't know where the blender got off to. But it's not like the modifications he made were  _that_ dangerous.

He straightens the picture frames, dusts the shelves, and organizes her books. First by author then by century published, and finally in order of topics he found most interesting, which was difficult considering a large portion were archaeological. By the time he finishes, the sun has only just begun to kiss its way across the eastern sky. It's light streaming in through the window like an eager promise of morning. 

He's setting off down the hallway, about to make unnecessary improvements to her bathroom plumbing when he hears a soft shuffling coming from her bedroom. He pauses, ear pressed to the door, and hears it again, the soft rustling of sheets. Knocking softly, he whispers, "River?" When she doesn't answer, he cautiously opens the door just enough to peer inside. She's fast asleep, covers pushed down to her waist from restless tossing and turning and body curled in on itself. Light spills in through a crack in the curtains, illuminating the unique contours of her face: sharp cheek bones and round lips, shapely brow and subtle lines around her eyes. The sight of it makes his hearts ache. She looks like an angel, her mass of unruly curls fanning out across the pillow like a halo. He so rarely got the privilege of watching her sleep. Always on the move, they didn't take enough time to be still with each other last time. When all this is said and done, he'll change that. They'll find adventures in small things, like planting flowers in her garden and making fun of old movies. He’ll surprise her at her university with lunch and he’ll make her introduce him to all her colleagues. He'll fill her office with flowers and love notes and embarrass her in front of her students by showing off exactly how much of a love sick fool he is. A smitten smile creeps up his cheeks, plots and schemes already running rampant in his head.

He makes to leave when the sound of her shifting onto her back makes him pause.  Her arms are spread out, brows knit together as she exhales a soft, "No.”

"River." He breathes quietly, stepping into the room, gravitating toward her bedside before he even realizes he's doing it. "It's alright. You're just dreaming." He soothes in a low, passive tone. Nightmares weren't uncommon for River, especially in the early days. But they grew few and far between the older she was. Now it seemed she was still haunted. Nightmares would follow her everywhere, even when she had all but forgotten their cause.

She moans again, a sheen of sweat forming and the rise and fall of her chest quickening. He attempts to soothe her again, but she doesn't seem to hear him. "No." She moans again and he closes the remaining distance in an instant, dropping to his knees by her bedside.

"Wake up sweetheart. You're only dreaming."  She still doesn't seem to hear him, shifting once again, eyes racing frantically behind her lids. He needs to comfort her, needs to be there for her, show her that she's not alone. Impulsively, the Doctor lifts a hand to her shoulder, the slightest bit of skin grazing hers and she bolts upright, arms swinging. "River it's me! It's okay!" He shouts, barely managing to dodge. River reaches for the light, giving him a quick once over before she swings at him again. This one he isn't quick enough to dodge. "Ouch! River, I said it’s me!" 

"I know it's you! Why are you in my bedroom?"

He rubs the sore spot on his arm, pouting. "You were having a nightmare." 

"And you just came in? What if I slept in the nude?" He flushes up to his ears because that is something she's accustomed to do. Usually only when they pass out together, all tangled up in sheets and too exhausted to be bothered about things like clothing. They only get in the way, anyway. He flushes again at his own thoughts.

"But luckily you're not. Not that you being nude is a bad thing." Her brows shoot up her forehead and he rushes to correct himself. "Not that I was trying to- I mean, you're very- it's just, um." He swallows hard, loosening his collar. "I'll just stop talking, shall I?"

"Probably for the best."

"Right. Back to sleep you go." He makes an effort to cover her up and she waves at him dismissively.

"After all that? No, I'm awake now. Might as well get up."

"Wonderful!" He enthuses, clapping his hands together, over joyed at not having to find ways to kill yet another few hours. "I'll cook breakfast!" 

River throws the covers off, making a half hearted noise of consent as she heads for the bathroom. "Do what you like. I need a shower."

The Doctor makes his way back into the kitchen, and if there’s a slight skip to his step, well, no one is around to notice. He sets to work, gathering a pan, eggs, and various spices, intent on making her the perfect omelet. It’s her favorite breakfast and it just happens to be his specialty. Well, by ‘just happens’ he means he spent about a week learning how to make them in sixteenth century Paris because she mentioned them once in passing. But who’s splitting hairs?

The task is easy, a meal he's made many mornings, so his mind wanders. For as much as they loved adventure and spontaneity, they were also creatures of habit. Despite the back to frontness, they had a routine. On rare days when timelines permitted her to stay, cooking her breakfast was one of them. It was easier to fudge the rules on the TARDIS, when they could suspend themselves in the vortex and let hours bleed into days and days into weeks. There were no worlds to save or obligations to guilt them into parting, nothing to dampen their time together bar the looming knowledge that it couldn’t last forever. When he would greet her in bed with her favorite breakfast and she would look up at him with sleepy, adoring eyes, it was easier to pretend, to ignore the nagging pull of time that wound around his hearts, tightening like a boa constrictor every time they parted.

Moments spent in her home were more rare. It hurt him to see the sun rising and setting, ticking off their time together like days of a calendar. But they had their routine here, too, smaller moments, but every bit as precious. 

From where he stands in the kitchen, he can hear the roar of running water. The pipes hum and groan _as she blasts the water, waiting for it to warm.  "That is the last time I let you take me anywhere near somewhere with 'Sludge' in the title." River complains, trying to drag her fingers through what was once a lovely head of hair. Now it more closely resembles an angry, gel soaked tumbleweed. And he's no better off than she is, trousers so saturated not even his braces would keep them up. They were so covered in the thick mucus, even his ship barred them access to every room but the console, refusing to let them track slime through her corridors or contaminate the showers. Instead they were forced to use River's house, leaving a trail of sludge all the way from the TARDIS to her bathroom._

_"Would it help if I told you that wasn't the moon system I was aiming for?"_

_"No," River huffs, tossing her clothes straight in the waste bin. "It really wouldn't."_

_"Oh. I won't tell you then." The Doctor catches River's smirk in the mirror before going back to pealing off his ruined suit. Although, where the slime lacked with fabric, it did wonders for his hair. The first product he's found that can tame his floppy fringe. He thinks he likes it pushed back like this, makes him look more serious. Maybe it would be enough to get people to listen when he told them not to wander off._

_"Oh quit primping." River teases, and he startles, eyes meeting River's through the mirror to find her smirking._

_"I'm not primping!" He squeaks, averting his eyes and continuing to fumble with his shirt buttons. River rolls her eyes, swatting his hands away to finish the task for him. "I think I like it pushed back." He says, watching her clever fingers rid him of his shirt. "Makes me look older."_

_"I like your baby face." She admits, slinking up next to him and running her hands over his exposed chest. "Makes me feel naughty."_

_His hands find her hips, a grin curling his cheeks. "Forever my bad girl."_

_"Oh honey," she purrs, eyes alight with mischief. "You don't know the half of it."_

 

“Is something burning?” River’s voice floats to his ears, pulling him out of his daydream.

 _Burning_? Please. He was trained by the finest chefs in- actually, there is a slight hint of smoke tickling his senses and- “The toast!” He leaps into action, barely managing to salvage the charred slices of bread and tossing it back and forth like a hot potato before depositing it safely onto her plate. He lathers a generous amount of marmite on hers, but spares his own because, honestly, the stuff is vile and offensive to his taste buds and he finds its very existence to be an atrocity. But they agreed to disagree.

"I see you made yourself at home." She comments and he turns to find her striding toward him, eyeing the rearranged furniture. She's wearing those jeans that should be outlawed, the denim hugging her curves somewhere between criminal and an art form. She looks much more like herself, with a gun hung around to her thigh and vortex manipulator strapped to her wrist.

 "Quite. I may also owe you a new clock." He finishes dishing up the last of the food just as she makes her way up to the breakfast bar, her face suddenly blank as she stares down at her plate. 

"You made me breakfast."

"Is that alight?"

"Yeah... It's my favorite, actually." But she doesn't sound pleased. 

"Funny that." He mutters, watching her carefully.

“I’m sorry.” She says abruptly, the tenderness in her voice cutting straight through him and settling in his gut. “I noticed you didn’t need me to tell you the coordinates to my house, so I figured we knew each other pretty well.” She purposefully avoids his eyes, gesturing to her breakfast. “But not this well.”  

He blinks at her in confusion for a moment before it dawns on him. He looks at this breakfast and sees cooking on Sunday mornings,  _Rory  fighting to keep the oven shut against an angry, billowing, bubbling white blob. "Oh, God, Rory !" Amy shouts rushing to assist him._

_"I may have accidentally used some kind of alien flour." He sheepishly admits, all his weight pressed against the oven door._

_River's wary eyes meet the Doctor's before turning back to her father. "Did it say self rising?" Rory nods and River sighs, "I'll get the swords."_

_"Swords?" Amy shouts. "Doctor what's going on?"_

_The Doctor gulps. "That wasn't flour."_

When presented with freshly buttered toast and the smell of hot coffee, he remembers  _Amy resting her forehead on the dinning room table, groaning about the brightness of the sun at such an ungodly hour._ He hears River and Rory dueling over the last of the bacon. _"I get the last piece because I'm the head of the house!" Rory argues. Behind him Amy snorts, so he changes tactics. "Alright, because I'm the oldest."_

_River hums, "For the sake of simplicity, I think it's best we only take into account this version reality."_

_Rory sighs, then takes a calculated step back. "Well you're also forgetting the very important fact that I," he lunges for the butter knife on the counter, "am armed!"_

_When he spins back around he drops the weapon instantly, eyes wide and hands raised at the sight of River pointing her blaster at him. Smirking, she reaches for the last piece of bacon. "Father dear, never bring a knife to a gun fight."_

The Doctor looks at marmite on toast and thinks only of her. It makes his chest ache to ponder the moments she must see, eclipsing a life she can't remember. Rather than a room bursting with laughter, she now sees cooking for one and eating alone in a big house.  Brunch with colleagues and campfires with her students on a dig sites fill in for family. Looking at that omelet now, it's plain to see her vision is clouded by all the moments she wouldn't know to miss if it weren't for him standing before her. The breakfast in front of her is a reminder of mornings she can't remember and conversations she didn't have, a manifestation of all the little holes in her life.

He wants to fill that void for her. To tell her about everything they've done and everywhere they've been and people they saved. But he remembers how scared he was in that library. How looking at her was like seeing all his choices had already been made for him, how he ran and lashed out and tried to push her away. Now the tables are turned and she doesn't lash out, she thinks only of others. A courtesy he never gave her. 

"You have nothing to be sorry about." He confesses, guilty and humbled because she's so much more gracious than he ever was.

“Still,” she offers easily, and the vulnerable woman is gone, buried deep like she never existed at all. “It must be difficult, for a friend to not know you.”

Friend. His heart sinks at the ordinary title, but it's better than nothing. It's more than he gave her in the beginning. 

It's the way she looks at him, or doesn't look at him as the case may be, that unsettles him. He's seen her flirt and smile and quip with friends and enemies and even strangers. But he's more than a stranger; he's an absence. He represents everything she's lost and just looking at him makes her feel incomplete. He feels incomplete too. Her eyes don't shine when they look into his. They don't reassure him that he's good. Without her enduring faith, he doesn't feel like he can conquer the world or save the universe. Without her, he isn't even sure he wants to.  She saw him for what he was and everything he wasn't. She saw  _him_  and now she sees nothing but a gaping hole. Who is he without her? He used to know. But nothing seems simple anymore.

"Am I married?" She says suddenly and his hearts leap into his throat.

"Why do you ask?" He clears his throat, trying to sound casual. "Do you remember something?"

She's quiet for a long moment, pushing eggs around her plate absentmindedly, "No. No, I don't remember anyone. It's just," she pushes a stray curl behind her ear, eyes flirting with the idea of making contact with his. “There are two sets of towels. Why would I need two sets of towels if I was here alone?"

His lips part, but words fail him, wholly unprepared to answer her question. Such a seemingly trivial thing, towels. He didn't make a habit of leaving personal items at her home. He never stuck around long enough to need to, and even so, the TARDIS was right out front. The towels were something she had bought for him. His own set, extra soft and extra long to account for his lanky body. She was always doing little gestures like that, taking notice and providing him with things he didn't even know he needed. River always thought of everything. 

At his failure to answer, she forces another self deprecating laugh, shaking her head and looking back to her plate. "I'm just grasping at straws."

"No" he rushes to speak, wanting to cling to the life line she's throwing him. He wants to tell her everything, that those are  _his_ towels and this is  _their_ breakfast and these hearts beating in his chest belong to  _her_. But words all seem elementary, unworthy. How would he even being to explain everything they were to each other? They weren't just married. They didn't just say a few vows and get a mortgage. They saved all reality, brought the universe back with a kiss. They changed a fixed event. They rewrote the laws of the physics. Against reason, against all the odds, against their better judgment, they chose each other. They lived more in twenty minutes than most people did in decades. And they loved more in half truths and stolen kisses than other couples did their whole lives. They made a promise to trust and love, knowing it would one day break their hearts. 

It wouldn't be fair to expect that from her again, not now when she knew nothing about him. Even if he did confess everything, all the scenarios he's played out in his head end badly. Her disappointed or laughing in his face because she is sexy and strong and glorious, and he is awkward and clumsy and miles less than she deserves. He imagines her angry, hurling books and shouting. And worst of all, he foresees her quiet contemplation. Obligation etched in the tightness around her eyes and written across her face like an obituary, crushed under the weight of emotions she doesn't feel.

Assuming she even believed him. It's not like he has any evidence, no identification, no wedding certificate or photographs. He barely has her trust, precariously riding on the fact that they share in a few photographed moments. All he has for proof are memories, the pounding of his hearts when she speaks, and the dizzy giddy feeling he gets when her eyes lock onto his.

This wasn't like the first time, when days had already happened, when his future was all but laid out before of him. For the first time, the book is blank. And if she wants to fill her pages with him again, that's a choice she has to make all on her own. It feels like she's fresh from Berlin all over again and anything he says or does will shape her. He doesn’t want to trap her with the weight of their complicated past. He wants her to choose him as she always has. He won't pressure her with preconceived titles or promises made by a woman she can't remember. This is a choice she has to make alone. So he bites back the torrent of explanations threatening to spill from his mouth. He swallows hard against his own need and exhales the words, "There was someone. Once."

Her eyes finally find the courage to meet his as she asks, "What happened?"

Loss. Loneliness. One too many bad days. Or maybe it wasn't what happened so much as what stopped happening. After the loss of his family, after River and the Ponds, he stopped feeling like he belonged. Eventually he patched himself back together with scar tissue. He had Vastra, Jenny, and Strax and eventually Clara, and they were enough to keep him functioning on autopilot. But he stopped having Christmas in Leadworth. He no longer found joy in ice skating or little picnics. He retired the habit of keeping score in museums and he certainly didn't  dance at weddings. He stopped being her Doctor.

"He's gone." He breathes carefully.

River's eyes widen in surprise, suddenly sad.  She assumes he means he's dead. And in a way it's true. The floppy haired, light hearted man is gone. The golden days are over. For all his flaws, he was a better man then, with her. She made him better. Now he's old and jaded and so very tired. He wants to be that man again. He could learn. Perhaps she could teach him. Perhaps they could remember together.  He still looks to her to save him. She is his beacon of hope. She is phosphenes, the colors bursting behind his eyes, the guiding light in the darkness.

"What was he like?" River asks, and he's the one to break eye contact. He considers her question, trying to see himself through her eyes, to best describe the man he was, the man she loved _with a silk scarf draped lazily around his neck and a top hat doing little to keep his floppy hair from falling in his face._

_"Did you dance?" Her voice feels like velvet and he turns to see her, soft curls swaying in the cool night air. "Well, you always dance at weddings, don't you?"_

_"You tell me." He smirks, finally getting the hang of this flirting business. But oh, she's much better._

_"Spoilers." She purrs, all scandal and invitation._

_Their fingers brush as he hands over her diary. Even in these fleeting moments her touch feels like static electricity, crackling across his skin, swimming through his veins, and fluttering in his stomach. "The writings all back, but I didn't peak."_

_"Thank you." She breathes, but it feels like more. It feels like sentiment of a different kind entirely. A ghost of an emotion he refuses to name skirts across her features, her face a map he can't quite read and written in a language he doesn't understand. But he's learning; she's opening his eyes to so many things._

_"Are you married, River?"_

 

“He was a bit of git, really.” He admits, and River lets out a laugh in spite of herself, the mood in the room brightening at the rich sound. “Far more confident than he had any right to be, and a hopeless, hopeless romantic. But he was a dreamer, an optimist at heart.” His voice lowers, eyes fixed on her, “And he loved you, more than anything. He didn’t say it often enough or with as much flair as you did, but he meant it just as much.” 

The corners of her mouth tug into the beginning of a smile at the description. It's nostalgia and longing and it isn’t a smile at all. It’s a question. One that even now, after all these years, he doesn’t have an answer for. He wonders if it's possible to miss something you can't remember. Can you miss the idea of love, feel the absence of it festering inside you, a gaping hole begging to be filled?

The rest of breakfast is finished in mutual quiet contemplation. By the time they clear up and set out to leave, the sun has started its ascent into the sky. The sea air whips at his face, salty and inviting, as they step into the early morning light. The atmosphere of this planet is thinner than that of Earth and it orbits a red dwarf star, the light of which casts a burnt orange glow in the early morning hours. Everything is amber, dipped in honey, and beyond the cliffs the angry water is caramel, waves sticking and clinging to the shore before they recede and crash and recede and crash from the pull of twin moons. The burnt sky always reminds him of Gallifrey, which is probably why she chose it. A way to feel connected to the one place they could never go, the home world she would never see.

Even the sunflowers delight in the orange rays, growing towards the light like they were made for it. On the other hand, the TARDIS stands out like a sore thumb, brilliant, blue, and defiant as it waits for them at the end of the path.

"So, Mr. Time and Space," River chimes, footfalls in sync with his. "You mentioned before about a diary being important. Is that what we're doing, trying to find it?"

He shakes his head. "It's not something you want just lying around. But if we can get your memories back, it may be easier to find.”

“Why is it important? What's it in?"

"Dunno. Never read it." Which is technically true. "But you're a time traveler and an archaeologist, which by the way is dreadfully contradictory, but that's beside the point." They reach the doors and he pauses, pushing it open to let her in first. "If I know you, and I do, you have all kinds of secrets in there that would be best kept hidden." 

River glances up at him before stepping passed him and into the ship. "So that's your plan, get my memories then the diary?"

"Yup." He chirps, following quickly after and bounding up the stairs.

She trails behind, contemplative as she states, "The doctors at the hospital said there's no way to know if I'll get them back."

"Well," he gives an enthusiastic twirl, arms shrugging. "Doctors are idiots."

"You're a doctor." River deadpans.

"Exactly." He rebuttals, flashing her a grin across the console, and she crosses her arms.

"You really think it's that simple?"

"Only one way to find out." The Doctor answers, flipping levers and grabbing the monitor. Curiosity lures her to his side, watching as he types. "A while back I forged a connection between the TARDIS interface and the Library mainframe." He answers her unspoken question. "I’m doing a system wide search for any and all information relating to River Song." 

"Why?"

“I think there was a transcription error and if we can locate the missing data we can finish the download.”

“But why do you even have a connection to the data core?”

The Doctor shrugs, “Biggest library in the universe. Comes in handy now and then."

_It's pathetic really, how he keeps the connection open, an addict hoping for a fix. But that's what she is, his drug, and he'll have to wean himself off her slowly if he wishes to maintain any grasp on sanity. He still needs her, even if she is only a ghost. He welcomes being haunted._

_"Where are we going today, my love?" She chimes, and never has raw computer code looked and sounded so sweet._

_He leaps into action like he wasn't pining at all. Never let her see the damage. "How about Bestiola?" He asks his ship, voice more enthusiastic than he feels. It's good putting on a show. But that's all it is, acting, pretending to be the man she wants to see._

_"Oh you can't go there. Think what the termites would do to the wood."_

_He pauses, "Actually. They do have a bit of a bug problem, don't they, Old Girl?"_

_"What about Esculentus?" River offers, playing along even though she thinks he can't hear her. "Bit touristy but one of the moons is actually made of cheese."_

_The Doctor's face lights up. "I know, Esculentus!" He flips a lever dramatically, "I fancy a quiche."_

_River smiles fondly at his antics. It's almost like she's really here, like they're off to see the stars, another adventure knocking on their door. But the harsh truth is she isn't, and he balls his hands into fists to fight temptation of bopping her nose._

_She keeps a calculated distance between them, effortlessly gliding away as he twirls  around the console. She dances away from him like polarized magnets, and he wonders if it's because she can't touch him or because she won't._

There's space between them now, too. Six inches and eight centimeters between shoulders that once would have brushed. Where once she would have leaned in to take a closer look and hot breath would have crawled across his neck, now there is only cold air.

She barely flirts with him now. There is no secret twinkle in her eye, like she knows the answer to some secret riddle while he hasn't even figured out the question. Now she practically looks right through him, unfazed. It reminds him of the early days, when she'd look at him and he could practically feel her shrug, like he wasn't just right, wasn't enough. The look in her eyes has always been able to build him up or tear him down. Even back then he wanted her approval, would strive to be better. He wanted to be the man she knew, the man she wanted. He wanted her to want him, even if he didn't know what he wanted from her. He wanted to be enough. He misses the days when she would look at him like he was magnificent. He almost believed it himself when it came from her shinning eyes, a woman capable of stopping time and changing fixed events and, well, anything.

In the here and now, the screen before them beeps, and oh, that's not good. That's very not good. "There doesn't seem to be any record of you in the data core." He breathes, a bit uneasy.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," he tries again, a counterfeit brightness he hopes she doesn't notice in his voice. "Anything concerning you must have already been downloaded."  _Or deleted_. But he refuses to accept that possibility. "So that means everything we need is in here." He turns to face her, tapping her forehead before spinning away. "We just need to find the password. And I know just the person to ask.”


	5. My Mind Holds The Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and posted this on my phone, so it's probably full of typos. (Please feel free to point them out in the comments section!) But I'm going out of town so wanted to get this chapter out to you guys asap. Remember that, because it's likely the next chapter may be a bit of a wait.
> 
> Also, just a reminder to avoid confusion, the flashbacks are only happening in the Doctor's mind. No one else's.

 

"My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love. But my mind holds the key." -Arcade Fire

 

* * *

"You're taking me to see a mobster." River fusses none too quietly, drawing the attention of a few curious eyes.

The Doctor flashes them an awkward smile, hurrying River through the crowd. His arm winds around her waist, keeping her close as he guides her through the sea of people. It's busy in the market place today, so if his grip is just a little tighter than needed, she doesn't mention it. She probably just assumes he doesn't want to lose her in the crowd. He tells himself that's why he's doing it too, that it has nothing to do with finding any excuse to touch her.

"He's not a mobster." His fingers flex around her waist as he leans into her. "And keep your voice down."

"If he's not a mobster, why do I need to keep my voice down?"

"Because," the Doctor huffs at her stubbornness. "You're drawing attention to us and I didn't leave on the best of terms with the Ruling Council last time I was here."

"Oh, I do love a bad boy." She purrs, glancing over her shoulder to peak at him with teasing eyes. "What did you do, offend the fashion police?"

"I sort of, accidentally, started a revolution.” River arches a curious brow so he continues. "I asked to borrow a pen." He explains, swallowing guiltily. "Things sort of... escalated."

River chuckles, rolling her eyes as she looks away from him and out into the crowd. "So this non mobster, what does he do?"

"He's a businessman. Trade mostly."

"What does he trade?"

"Oh, this and that."

His evasiveness isn't fooling anyone because River stops short, spinning in his arms to look up at him, eyes fierce and narrow. "Can this man be trusted?"

"Of course he’s trustworthy."

"He's not involved in anything illegal then?" The Doctor's hesitation lasts only a fraction of a second before, "Of course he's trustworthy!" Her lips part, rebuttal fresh on her tongue. "Oh look! We're here!" The Doctor distracts her, grabbing her by the shoulders, spinning her around, and urging her forward.

Illegal was a relative term anyway.

He guides her toward an antique looking building. It's humble outer shell betraying the rather awe inspiring interior. It stands three stories tall with a high vaulted ceiling, each floor filled with shelves upon shelves of herbs, medicine, and remedies of every kind. Lining the walls are books and weapons and gadgets, there are rare fruits and vegetables, plants for decoration, plants for eating, and plants that would sooner eat you. Everything imaginable can be found within these walls, a melting pot of trinkets from all over the universe. Some of it legal. Some of it not. And the man they're here to see has a hand in all of it.

River stops to examine the cosmetics counter, though it would be more aptly labeled the espionage aisle. Along with the standard hallucinogenic lipsticks and mints laced with truth serum, there is also an ample supply of hazardous jewelry. Everything from diamonds designed to dissolve into poisons to necklaces that emit a force field to earrings capable of detonating micro explosives are readily displayed. There's even a perfume that masks DNA, making it virtually impossible to decipher genetic abnormalities or hereditary history. Less common and more elegant than a bio damper, but equally as effective. He's quite certain she wore a honeysuckle scented brand when meeting pre Demons Run versions of himself, which was cheating and dreadfully sneaky of her. Then again, no one ever accused River of playing fair.

Not all the toys and trinkets are straight out of the James Bond handbook. Some of them he condones and, had to admit, came in handy from time to time. For example, he was pleasantly surprised to discover her favorite shade of nail polish did far more than match her ruby red shoes. It was harmless when wet, but once dry, it became nearly indestructible. He's seen it in action, watched as River carved an SOS into granite without so much as chipping a nail. Another item he's particularly fond of is a seamless dress, gene locked and undone only by the touch of specific individuals. He bought one for River on their twelfth honeymoon. _A blue dress so pale it's practically white, glistening and shimmering like ice. The lace sleeves cling to her arms like vines and the hem swirls around her feet like dust in a gentle breeze._ _It fits perfectly; he knew it would. He knows the contours of her curves better than an artist knows a canvas._

_His arms wrap around her from behind, hands dancing along her sides. River relaxes against him, warm and supple, curves molding to sharp edges like a foot step into sunbaked summer sand._ _"I had it keyed so it only responds to you and me." He tells her, brushing his lips along the curve of her neck._

_River's eyes meet his in the mirror, blinking innocently as she queries, "But how will my other boyfriends undress me?"_

_"Exactly." He smirks into her skin, one possessive hand curling into her hip and tugging her closer while the other crawls torturously up her belly. "Only a husband gets to do this."_

_She watches with baited breath as his talented hand caresses over her ribs and the swell of her breast. Those long fingers don't stop there, stroking teasingly against her throat and down to trace the sharp line of her collar bone. When he reaches her neckline, he taps twice before hooking a finger over the fabric and dragging downward, slow, sensual, and as delicate as a sculptor perfecting his masterpiece. The material yields under the pressure, parting as his finger travels down her sternum. A flush spreads across her skin, blooming in the wake of his fingers as if he'd burned her._

_In the mirror he watches her, green eyes darkening as he exposes inch by glorious inch of her chest. "Well," she sighs, voice throaty and full of promise. "What a lucky girl I am."_  

"Not that I'm complaining," River says, testing out mascara that does heaven knows what. "But how exactly is shopping supposed to help us solve anything?"

"He meets a lot of people." The Doctor answers, poking his head above the crowd, searching for the shop's owner. "If he can't help, he'll know someone who can." He spots him, as expected, in the center of a enraptured audience, no doubt telling a charming tale. As if sensing he's being spoken about, the man looks their way and smiles. Not a greasy salesman smile or a polite formality, but a genuine 'it's good to see you' smile as he excuses himself and makes his way through the crowd.

"Here he comes now." The Doctor nudges River and she looks up, sharp eyes scanning the man in question. He's tall, clean cut, and radiating an infectious jolly energy. He's also draped in a rather eye catching jacket, long, silver, and almost scaly in texture. Needless to say, he isn't an easy one to miss. Not that the Doctor was looking. He was married, after all.

"Is that why they call him 'The Fish'?" River asks, admiring the way his long coat catches the light, sparkling with greens and pinks.

"Nah." The Doctor answers, "That's just good for business. His _hook_ , so to speak. He earned the nickname a few years back when he was a small time salesman. Got into some trouble for stealing clients from the competition, so they tried to drown him. But he held his breath so long eventually they gave up and offered him a job instead."

River snorts. "So he's not a mobster, he just works for them. Lovely."

" _Businessman_." The Doctor corrects. "And he's quite a good friend, so behave."

River makes no promises, pasting on a faux smile as the man greets her first. "River!" Jim beams, pulling her into a tight hug, which she awkwardly returns, patting his shoulders.

The Doctor waits his turn, having accepted a long time ago that he was second fiddle to River. She captivates everyone, a fact that used to irritate him. Before her, he was accustomed to being the smartest, most interesting person in a room. Then River Song swanned into his life and he was lucky if people even noticed he was _in_  the room. Even his own ship liked her better. And to make matters worse, his companions weren't immune to her mystique either, endlessly fascinated by the mad, gorgeous, trouble maker, who sauntered around his TARDIS like she owned the place. Everywhere they go, eyes glue to her hair or her hips. People loose themselves in her eyes and smile and naughty little laugh. She is a mystery everyone wants to solve. Everyone falls victim to her charms, rendered madly in love by a mere flutter of her lashes. Even her enemies can't resist her, and now he knows why. She's irresistible.

"Tell me," Jim pulls back, grinning, "You've finally come to your senses and are here to declare your undying love for me?"

River forces a laugh. "Not today I'm afraid."

Jim gives an exaggerated sigh, "Well, when you're sick of this one, you know where to find me." River opens her mouth to speak but the Doctor coughs, drawing Jim's attention. "And you, Doctor!" He greets, taking the Doctor’s hand in his with friendly vigor. "It's been too long!"

"You finally finished The Dam." The Doctor observes, gesturing around the shop. "Looks great by the way."

"Things went much smoother after you stopped helping. I never knew there were so many wrong ways to assemble a cabinet." Jim tosses River a conspiratory wink before continuing. "What brings you here, my friends?"

The Doctor leans in. "Is there somewhere private we can talk?" The man glances between them, for the first time noting the space between their bodies, the nervous look in the Doctor's eyes, and unfamiliar stiffness in River’s frame.

"Of course." He nods warily. "Right this way." Jim turns on a dime, briskly winding his way through the crowd with River and the Doctor in tow.

"Why is it called The Dam?" River whispers, sticking close to the Doctor.

His arm finds its way around her waist again, an anchor, a habit, an excuse to keep from knocking anything over while the other hand gesticulates madly in front of him. "All business comes to and trickles out through him." The Doctor explains. "He is the buffer zone between the product and the market."

River hums, “Clever. I like it.”

“Well, you would.” The Doctor chuckles. “It was your idea.”

The Doctor suggested naming it The Reef. But favoritism towards River knows no bounds and, inevitably, Jim sided with her. Not that the Doctor was bitter. Definitely not. Mostly. Well, maybe a little bit.

They turn a corner, leading to a small, but comfortable, back room, one probably reserved for his more prestigious clients. Now that they're away from the crowd, the Doctor has to remind himself to step away, give her space. He can't stand as close as he desires, can't casually throw his arm over her shoulders or stroke his fingers over her side. It takes physical restraint on his part. Having to tread carefully around his feelings for River was yet another hardship he'd never had to endure. He's always been able to touch River, a tap on her nose, a thumb smoothing over her bottom lip. She's always flirted, even when she wanted to kill him. She's always known him, been curious. Even when she was young, she welcomed the way his fingers reflexively reached for hers or how _his hands lingered a little too long on the small of her back. She takes it as invitation, pressing her chest into his and looking up at him with her greenest bedroom eyes. And bedroom eyes is a shockingly appropriate. When she invited him into her dorm for coffee, he hadn't realized that her kitchen, bedroom, and study all shared the same 12x12 space._

_He gulps at the sight of her bed, so close and easily unmade. And her desk, so tidy and just begging to have its contents knocked to the floor. "I'm not, you know." She breathes, eyes fixed on his mouth._

_He swallows, all too aware of the delicate fingers waking up his chest. "Not what?"_

_"As young as you think I am." Oh but she is. He can see it in her eyes, open and vulnerable because they have nothing to hide yet. He reads it in the way she floats around him, not weighed down by secrets and foreknowledge. He can smell it on her, gun powder and recklessness. "We've kissed before." She assures him. "So stop worrying."_

_Her arms wrap around his neck and his own hands roam across her back even as he protests, "Berlin doesn't count."_

_"I wasn't talking about Berlin." She counters, and he visibly relaxes._

_"Well in that case." He smirks, bending his head to kiss her. Their lips meet and she lets out the softest, most sinful noise he's ever heard. It makes his grip tighten, pulling her hips into his. She groans her approval, hands fisting in his hair, kneading until he's purring or growling or moaning. Somewhere in the haze of her perfume and the taste of her tongue, he knows he should stop. But it's a distant, fleeting thought he gladly passes by in his endeavor to map her mouth and body with his hands and tongue._

_Luckily, she maintains some control, breaking away with a satisfied sigh. "Well, you certainly know how to make a first impression."_

_He hums. Too right he knew how to- no, wait, hang on. "But you- you said..."_

_"Yup." She grins. "I lied."_

_"River! You can't do things like that!"_

_"Like what?"_

_"Like manipulate people! That was an ill manner use of rule one and you can't use it just to... to..." He splutters. "Kiss me!"_

_"Well, if you insist." Her grin widens, tugging him to her and kissing him into submission. He gives in with embarrassing ease, any further protests dying as she strokes her tongue against his. He melts into the sensation. Any kiss could be his last, and he intends to savor every second he can._

But in this small room, he's a stranger. She regards him like someone she happens to be sharing a cab with, purposefully ignoring and yet remaining acutely aware of his presence. The Doctor can sympathize. He remembers doing the same all too well. He sees himself in her now, like watching his younger self through a mirror, a distorted reflection of days long past. So many, many days ago when he would eavesdrop, desperately trying to fill blank spaces and figure out answers to questions she already knew, reaping the repercussions of choices he made from days he hadn't yet lived.

Now he's on the other side. He's in her shoes. Not literally, of course, because high heels were frightfully impractical. But still, he leads by her example, pretending he doesn't notice the way she steals curious glances at him from the corner of her eye. He pushes aside the dull ache in his chest as he takes a seat, leaving a respectable distance between them at the small table.

Jim sits across from them, all business as he asks, "So, what can I do for you?"

The Doctor takes the lead, explaining the things he can, side stepping the things he can't, and deliberately avoiding things he doesn't want to think about. He explains, through no specific terms, that River's memory has been compromised and they need a way hack her brain, unlocking them. He conveniently doesn’t mention the would be kidnappers. Though, knowing Jim, he probably would have gotten a kick out of it, declaring ' _Just another day in the life of River Song.'_ That was what made Jim so good, no problem was too much, nothing he couldn't fix or find.

When the Doctor finishes filling him in, Jim gives a good natured laugh. “And here you had me worried. I should use this opportunity to coerce you into another night of karaoke before you remember what a dreadful singing voice I have.”

River smirks, "Get me back my memory and I'll let you sing as much as you want."

Jim's grin widens, "You drive a hard bargain, River Song. But as it happened, I know a telepath who may be of assistance. She helps out from time to time on business deals, security, that kind of thing." Jim stands, making for the door. "I'll only be a moment." He says, then pauses, turning back to River and adding, "Don't let him break anything." With that, he exits the room, leaving the Doctor gaping at such a presumptuous and, alright, a little bit warranted, comment. But still, rude.

He shifts in his seat, now very aware of how alone they are in this room. No tea to sip at or TARDIS levers to flip. No distractions to impede the painstaking stillness that exists between them. The seconds drag by like lead through a sand pit before River finally breaks the silence. "I didn't think he was going to take the bait. But you really managed to _reel_  him in."

The Doctor's cheek twitches, fighting a smile. "Jim is quite the catch."

"But do you think he's up to scale?"

"Definitely." His eyes steal a glance at River to find a smile of her own tugging at her lips. "He'll swim up stream just for the halibut."

River hums, "Sounds like he's truly Cod's gift to mankind."

"Oh, he is. Hook, line, and sinker."

River's resolve cracks, smile bright and laughter warm as she finally looks his way. "That was terrible, honestly Doctor."

"Me?!" He squeaks. "You started it." They dissolve into laughter, sobering only when Jim reappears, accompanied by a woman with lavender skin and dark eyes.

“These are my friends, River and the Doctor." Jim gestures toward them,  the Doctor giving a salute while River flashes her sweetest smile. "Friends, this is Casia."

"Nice to meet you, Casia." River says. "If you don't mind my asking, where are you from?"

"The Magia Realm.” The girl answers, taking a seat across from River.

“The Magia Realm, really?” The Doctor pipes up, suddenly intrigued.

She nods, smiling, "I assure you, none of the legends are true."

The Magia Realm is home to a very unique, very rare species. Their empathic and telepathic abilities allowing them to project any appearance they desire into the minds of those around them. Consequently, even though everyone in the universe knew they existed, no one could say for certain what they looked like. For the Doctor, she appeared mostly humanoid but with lavender skin and even deeper lilac eyes. Given her line of work, it's possible she used the same avatar for everyone. However, it's far more likely that’s what a quick read of his subconscious provided: a little bit of human, a little bit of alien, all centering around a pretty face.

Some of Earth's early folklore were based around her kind, stories about sirens or mermaids, water dwelling creatures capable of putting images into ones mind. The stories said they would prey on men, luring them into the water, never to be seen again.

As she turns her attention to River, he can see how men thought they were sirens. She moves with all the grace of water, fluid and transfixing. “It works best with physical contact.” She informs, and even her voice is hypnotic.

"By all means.” River smirks, leaning forward across the small table.

At River's consent, Casia lifts both hands, revealing long, delicate fingers, each tipped with concave, suction cup like finger pads. "Try to relax." She instructs and River nods, closing her eyes as the other woman’s fingers press strategically around her temples. "Can you boys take a step back? I'm getting interference."

The Doctor and Jim do as requested, retreating to the far corner of the room. Both woman exhale deeply in unison, making the Doctor wonder if it's Casia falling in sync with River or if she can empathically control River's breathing. Intimate thing, telepathy. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little jealous seeing her form such a deep connection with someone else.

There's nothing like it, connecting mind, body, and soul. It was a drug, a guilty pleasure they both indulged in as often as they could. While it made him all the more eager for the pleasure of her company, it also amplified the already gaping hole of her absence. Being alone was all the worse after the constant, soothing brush of her mind. Another's thoughts mingling with his own was a sensation he hadnt experienced since Galifrey. Just another reason seeing River felt like coming home.

Without her, the quiet was almost unbearable at times. His own thoughts _echo and reverberate in the emptiness around him. Of all the places to be stranded, they ended up on a planet of the boring, nothing happens here ever variety._

_Beside him, River sleeps soundly in their make shift shelter. She's curled up on top of his brown trench coat, his blue suit jacket balled under her head as a pillow. It's probably ruined now, not that he minds. It's much too hot on this boring desert planet of nothing but endless sun and sand to need it anyway. And yet, something about the sight unsettles him. She looks serene, peaceful, and not at all like a crushing omen of days that lie ahead. What gives her the right to rest so easily in his presence? As if she just knows he'll protect her. They've only met a handful of times from his perspective, but it's enough for him to know what will become of them, enough to make him curious in spite of himself._

_He finds himself drawn to her, a magnet, her pull like gravity, inevitable and without impedance. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself sitting next to her, watching her. She's older than his usual companions, smarter too, and capable. No more or less beautiful than any of them, though. In fact, her nose has a bump in the middle, her smile has far too many teeth, and her hair is all frizzy and wild. But..._ _There's something about her, something undeniably breathtaking. His fingers itch to touch her, a liberty he doesn't typically allow himself._

_As if by divine intervention, a stray curl falls over her eyes and he finds himself brushing it behind her ear like a reflex. His finger tips linger by her temples. It would be so easy to read her mind, to delve into her thoughts and reveal all her secrets._ _Her skin tingles against his, the current of her mind an invitation, beckoning him inside._

_Her diary is off limits, but she never said anything about her mind; and in a moment of weakness, he accepts, and oh, any reservations he held disappear instantly as River's subconscious washes over him. Her mind is brilliant and complex, a kaleidoscope of colors and memories and a girl with red hair and days still to come. It's fascinating and overwhelming and he wants more, needs more. He chooses a thought he isn't in at random, submerging himself in her memories. She's wearing a green dress, but she isn't dancing or laughing or enjoying herself at all. She's in an abandoned building, tally marks scattered along her arms, cold trepidation creeping up her spine. She's scared, properly scared. Of what he can't be sure. Tarp flaps in the chilly night breeze and she turns, pulse racing as-_

_A hard slap to the face breaks his connection, eyes flying open to a fuming River. "Spoilers Doctor!" She barks._

_The Doctor rubs at his cheek, saying nothing. He's not sorry, not really. But the look on her face tells him he should be, that he's just violated her trust in a way she never expected._

_"How much did you see?" She asks, watching him with apprehensive eyes._

_"Nothing important," he tells her. "I swear."_

_Her face falls because he just doesn't understand. "It's all important." She confesses sadly, and his chest feels suddenly hollow. He's always hurting her, in one way or another._

_"For what it's worth, you're beautiful. Your mind I mean."_

_She refuses to look at him, fixing her hair and dusting off her pants as she declares, "Next time, Doctor, ask."_

_"There will be a next time?" He asks, brown eyes full of hope._

_River sighs, heavy and tired as she looks over to him. "Yes. Many."_

_He nods, picking at a spot on his shoes as he sheepishly asks, "Would you mind if I...? That's to say, if it's not too soon?"_

_River bites her lip. "I really shouldn't."_

_"Right, yeah, of course." he looks down, picking again at his shoes. "It's just," He peaks up at her. "Do you always do what you should?"_

_It's a challenge and she knows it. But there's something about the way she considers him, green eyes sparkling with mischief and that indulgent smirk he's become quite familiar with tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Fine," she caves. "But I'm in control. Got it?"_

_He nods eagerly, scooting closer to her in the small tent. The weary look in her eyes is banished, replaced by playful swirls of green and gold. She smiles at him, the one full of teeth. It makes her nose crinkle. Funny, he'd never noticed before._

_"Geronimo." She chimes, touching her fingers to his temples. The connection is much stronger this time and he loses himself in a euphoria beyond the complexity of words, music and colors and mystery and flashes of feelings and laughter and love and he understands now, even if he doesn't quite feel it yet. He knows why she's important, why she feels safe in his company, why he will tell her his name. He's never felt anything quite like this, quite like her. For the first time he thinks that maybe, a life with her wouldn't be so bad afterall._

"You have a gorgeous mind," Casia confesses, completely in awe. "Incredibly strong too. It’s difficult to see inside even with your consent."

"Yours isn't so bad either." River's lips tug into a smirk. "Imagine what you could do with this kind of connection intimately." Whatever River's thinking at that moment makes Casia turn a darker shade of purple. Beside him, Jim chuckles, but the Doctor finds himself torn between rolling his eyes and loosening his neck tie. River was simply incorrigible. One time she even convinced him to- actually, this wasn't the time or place to be thinking of _that_. 

"Talk me through what you're feeling." Casia instructs.

"It tingles." River answers. "A bit like pop rocks on your tongue, but in my mind."

An amused smile spreads across Casia's lips. "Perfectly normal. I’m going to push a little deeper now. Brace yourself, it may hurt a bit."

Even though he's not the one under scrutiny, the Doctor takes a deep breath, watching as _River's face falls, disappointment and dread creasing her forehead. "No. Really? Why does it have to be mine?"_

_"Because," the Doctor sighs. "Amy read it in a book and now I have no choice." Trapped again by foreknowledge, her wrist has to be broken and Amy will say farewell and no matter what he does, one way or another, this day will end in pain._

River's resolve sets, preparing for the intrusion in her mind. For the Doctor, it takes conscious effort to remain still, to not pace about the room or toy with his screwdriver. He can't stand it, being so helpless, so useless, while someone else does all the work and takes all the risk.

"Still feel like pop rocks?" Casia's soothing voice helps calm him, but nothing settles his nerves like the breathless laugh River releases.

"More like licking a battery." Sharp, electric, fleeting. "Nothing I can't handle."

Casia sits up straighter in her chair, her own eyes closing in concentration. "I want you to go towards that feeling, follow it. But tell me if it's too much."

River nods her understanding, letting out a long, steady breath. The Doctor finds himself steadying his own breathing, suddenly nervous. His fingers twitch at his sides and his palms feel sweaty and was it always so warm in this room? He pushes those thoughts aside, keeping a critical eye on River. He knows her limits; he's seen her barrel right passed them just for fun. He knows how she lies; he's certainly heard enough of them. He uses it to his advantage, taking note of her subtle facial twitches, making sure what she says coincides with the tells of how she really feels.

He can tell she's struggling as she battles within her own mind. He sees it in the tension of her frame, _her whole body hyper aware. Nearby he bristles with quiet rage. Meanwhile, she is still trapped by the angel, a gladiator tossed in the pit with a snarling lion. "Okay, I know that face." She counters his anger with soothing tones. "Calm down. Talk to me, Doctor." He snaps at her, all fury and no forgiveness, storming out of the room, demanding she do the impossible._

River winces and it's all he can do not to run to her side. "What was that?" The Doctor asks a bit too quickly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." River huffs.

"We've just reached a block." Casia informs. "Nothing to worry about."

"What's causing the pain? Should it be hurting? What does that mean?" The Doctor bombards the woman with questions, unable to keep his feet from pacing around the room.

"It's not uncommon. The pain is a representation of the holes in her memory. For some reason the brain can't or doesn't want to access those areas, hence the mental blocks."

"Yes, but what are they, exactly?" He pesters again. "What are the blocks?"

"Her memories. Or where they should be, at least. Usually just acknowledging them is enough to surface the memory. But your brain is putting up a fight. Not to worry, with a little persuasion we should be able to get past the barriers."

An irritated hand runs through his hair as he asks, "But... Why are they even there?"

"To protect." Casia answers, eyes dancing behind her lids as she probes deeper into River's subconscious. "If tissue is damaged, the blocks act like patchwork. Which would have made this like ripping off a bandaid."

"Would?" River speaks up, voice slightly strained.

"These," Casia hesitates. "..don't look like the result of any trauma I've ever seen. This is a new class of block entirely."

He feels physically sick at that. More evidence this isn't a simple fix, verbalization that it didn't happen by accident, that maybe she chose this, wanted to forget him. Was this her chance at starting fresh? A Doctor free life, where she doesn't have to live with all the pain he caused her. Is he tainting her by being here, ruining her last chance at a normal life? Maybe this wasn't a second chance for them. Maybe this was a second chance for her, free from the pressure of him.

" _You asked. I did. Problem?" She clips, and he stares at her in awe. Do her wonders know no bounds?_

_"You just changed the future." He breathes, heart suddenly light. She is good, unbelievable even. If she could change the future, maybe he doesn't have to say goodbye, not to Amy, not to River, not to any of them. Maybe time really can be rewritten._

He shouldn't have expected her to do this. There are other options they should have exhausted first. But, as always, he's come to the realization too late and there's no turning her back now.

"How did they get there then, if it wasn't the result of injury? Could it have been-"

"Doctor." River snaps through gritted teeth. "Shut up." 

"Right. Sorry. Shutting up." He continues his nervous pacing, compelled to move by the eerie stillness of the two women. He much prefers the running and the fighting and, yes, even the shooting over this perpetual maze. At least when up against the Daleks things are simple. He knows what their goals are and how to fight them. But this, fighting an enemy he can't see, stabbing in the dark, clinging to maybes and a dwindling sense of hope, is torture.

River hisses, face contorting. "Can you.."

"Yes, I see it too." Casia nods encouragingly, taking a deep breath. "Focus on it."

"What is it? What have you found?" Hope and dread and nervous energy swirl and knot and pulse inside his chest.

"The source of the blocks." Casia speaks. "There's dozens. Possibly hundreds."

"Good. Thats good!" His hands clap together, hopeful. "Now you can just remove them, right."

"It's not so simple as that, I'm afraid. Think of the brain as a muscle. Overexert it and it gives out on you; but build it up slowly and it gets stronger. If we try to unlock them all at once, it could fry her brain."

"Funny." River huffs a hollow laugh. "They say that's what got me into this situation."

"One at a time it is then." Casia agrees, both hands cupping River's face. "Now, River, imagine the pain is a wall. Try and knock it down."

River's brow furrows in concentration. Her fists are clenched, arms dangling down by her sides as she narrows all of her energy into the task before her.

" _There's a car out front. Shall we steal it?" He's never been so giddy, so delighted by her defiance, her utter disregard for the  rules._

_"Show me!" He reaches for her hand the way he's done a million times before, but she gasps, ripping it away from his grasp._  

River's breath hitches and Casia pauses, eyes opening to examine River. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, of course." River answers quickly, eyes flicking to the table. "Just caught me by surprise."

She looks flushed and strained and he doesn't like it at all. "Maybe we should stop." The Doctor intervenes.

"I'm said I'm fine.” She bites back, stubbornly closing her eyes, preparing for another attempt. “I can take it."

_She lied. It's broken and she lied and he didn't even notice and she didn't change the future and she **lied**. Why would she do that? To give him hope? To hide weakness, defeat? There's fear in her eyes as she gapes at him. Fear from the woman who makes Daleks beg, who stares death in the face and laughs. River Song should never fear anything, and yet she's looking at him with wide panicked eyes. It's enough to make his stomach twist. She should never be scared, never of him. _

River pushes harder, shoulders taut, forehead glistening, and knuckles turning white from exertion. "River-" He tries again.

"I said I'm fine." She silences him. But the physical strain is taking its toll on her, brow knit, jaw tight, and hands curled around her seat so tight he fears she'll splinter the wood. The Doctor takes a step closer, a trickle of blood dripping from her nose and onto the table.

_Her wrist is mangled and bruised and bleeding. There will be a scar. His fault, another mark on her body, damage he can't undo. "It must hurt." He says gently, taking her wrist in his hands as delicately as he can._

_"Yeah," she sighs, avoiding his eyes. "The wrist is pretty bad too." A piece of him dies knowing that he's hurt her. He wonders how many times he's caused her pain. How many times has she held her tongue, hiding the damage? He can't stand the thought of it, of looking at this wrist in the future and remembering that he caused it. A constant reminder of how selfish he is, of what he asked of her and how far she went to protect him from it._

"River you're bleeding." He says softly.

_Gold light swirls between them, tingling as he gives her pieces of his life in the most intimate way he can_.

But his words fall on deaf ears, sufficiently ignored by the two women. Both sets of eyes are pinched shut in concentration, Even Casia's breathing has become labored, chest rising and falling almost as quickly as the hearts that pound within him.

Another drop of blood, this one falling onto her top, staining the material crimson. “Stop.” He says louder, eyes darting between the women. He can't watch this anymore. Not again, not this time, not when he's the one who brought her here, asked her to do this. Not when her brow is knit and her teeth are grinding and jaw flexing and two more drops scar the table and this is all his fault and she's in pain and, "That's enough!" He shouts, unable to take it anymore.

Casia’s fingers detach from River instantly, spooked by his sudden outburst.

River gasps at the sudden loss, eyes flying open in anger. "We were so close! Why did you do that?!"

"River," he breathes, voice grave. "You're bleeding."

River looks confused for a moment before following his eyes to the table, where a few drops of blood stand bright and violent against the smooth wood. She wipes at her nose, scarlet sticking to her fingers.

The Doctor kneels by her side, pulling a cloth from his pocket and handing it to her as tentative and tender as the voice that asks, "Are you alright?" She nods, avoiding his eyes and he takes the opportunity to examine her. Skin flushed, pulse elevated, but pupils normal. She'll be fine.

Satisfied, he turns his attention to Casia, finding Jim by her side doing the same. "Well?" The Doctor prompts, irritation lacing his tone.

Under his critical stare, Casia's mouth bobs, eyes flitting between him and Jim, searching for words, "She's fine." She's blurts. "Her brain is healthy."

_Fine? How can she be fine?_

"What about the blocks?" River questions with a patience the Doctor decidedly lacks.

Casia turns a sympathetic expression on River. "I can't explain why you have missing memories. By the look of things, you shouldn't. It could mean the brain is healing. With enough time you could be fine."

"Why am I sensing there's an or?" River sighs, brow arching.

"Or," Casia continues, reluctant. "It could mean the brain is already healed and the blocks are scar tissue. The memories may be physically present, but you can't access or remember them because the synapses aren't firing anymore."

"But you don't actually know." The Doctor spits, the words bitter on his tongue. "You're just guessing is all!" With a huff, he turns his back on the other occupants, eyes boring through the wall and raking a frustrated hand through his hair. The more they learn, the less and less sense this made. Mysterious notes and would be kidnappers and missing diaries and blocks that are scar tissue in a healthy brain that can't be healthy at all because she can't _remember_ him. How could she not remember him? What could possibly come between River Song and the memories she would die for?

A heavy quiet falls over the room, contemplative, burdened. Luckily Jim breaks the silence. “Casia why don’t you take River and get her a new top.” He suggests. “Anything she wants, no charge.”

River gives a tight, grateful smile to Jim, eyes flicking back to the Doctor as she follows Casia out of the room. The women leave and the Doctor drags an exasperated hand over his face, no closer to answers than he was yesterday. A deep breath falls from his lips, trying to calm the ever growing frustration building inside him.

"I'm sorry. I know that wasn't the answer you were hoping for." Jim pats his shoulder and the Doctor turns, forcing a weak, apologetic smile. "Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"Actually, there is something else I wanted to ask you about." The Doctor reaches into his pocket, pulling out the communicator. "Have you ever seen one of these before?" He asks, handing it to Jim for a brief examination.

"Just your standard Comlink." He asses easily, tossing it back to the Doctor. "A glorified walkie talkie basically. Nothing special."

The Doctor purses his lips, tucking the device back in his coat pocket. "Hard to trace then?"

"I suppose. Why? Where did you get it?"

"The hospital River was in was attacked. I found it on one of the men."

A shadow falls over Jim's cheerful face. "Doctor," he begins hesitantly. "I wasn't going to mention. You know what she's like. It's probably nothing or you've already done it, but given the state of things..."

The Doctor's eyes narrow in on his friend, concerned. "What is it?"

"There are rumors. They probably aren't even true-"

"Jim, what have you heard?"

Jim looks reluctant. "The Time Agency has been asking about her." 

"What? Why?"

"She has something they want."

"Like an artifact?"

Jim shakes his head, "A weapon. I thought that’s why you were here, actually. I thought you were looking to get rid of it. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little relieved to be wrong."

"Do you know what kind of weapon?” The Doctor questions, a ball of anxiety twisting it's way back into his gut.

“They didnt specify. But..." And if the Doctor hadn't been rightfully nervous before, the grimace marring Jim's face would be vindication enough. "I got the impression it wasn't something you'd want to fall into the wrong hands."

Great, so on top of everything else, his wife has stashed a very dangerous, very powerful, most likely stolen weapon somewhere around the galaxy. And to make matters worse, she probably can't even remember doing it. And to add insult to injury, the Time Agency was involved. They weren't exactly known for being lenient or reasonable, or respectable for that matter, but holding a hospital hostage didn't seem like their style, which would mean there were potentially _two_ organizations searching for his wife. One of which had ready access to time travel. So that left the Doctor with not only her memories to recover, but a weapon to find, and not one but two organizations to avoid, all while trying to woo his wife.

The worry must show on his face because Jim rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey, River has a good head on her shoulders. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about." Jim's fond eyes search his. "Right?”

Pasting on a tight lipped smile, the Doctor nods. “Right. Nothing to worry about.”


	6. Chasing the Ghost of a Good Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this chapter, lets all just pretend that episode in season 8 where the moon was an egg never happened. xD

 

"Well the good ol' days may not return. And the rocks might melt and the sea may burn." -Tom Petty

* * *

 

The walk back to the TARDIS is a quiet one. The crowds thinning as twilight descends, casting shadows over once busy streets. River hasn't said much since they left Jim's, nothing more than hums of approval or nods of agreement. There's tension in her frame, her steps a little too brisk and her answers a little too curt. Not that he expected any different.

  _She's distant, not literally of course. Physically she's only a few feet away, three small strides would put him by her side. But emotionally, she's miles and miles away, closed off and as untouchable as some parallel reality. Which is fair, all of this feels a bit surreal anyway. The cemetery, the way Amy’s voice cracked as she said her goodbyes._

_Melody. She'd called her Melody. Of course she had._

_"River, they were your parents. Sorry, I didn't even think."_

_She doesn't look at him, and he can't rightly blame her. He wouldn't look at him either. "It doesn't matter." She clips, eyes fixed on the controls, typing simply for a distraction. But he sees the way she flexes, swallowing back everything that needs to be said._

_"Of course it matters." He breathes. Another piece of her life has been ripped to shreds simply because he exists, because he never **thinks** , and all he can offer her is 'sorry'. It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin._

_"What matters is this," she meets his eyes for the first time since they've stepped into the TARDIS, since they flew away from her parent’s grave. "Doctor, don't travel alone."_

_She's worried about him. What else would she be thinking of when he's been begging for her help since the day she met him? When he's the one who collapsed to his knees, who needed her hand on his shoulder to keep him from falling apart. "Travel with me then."_

_There's a question in his voice, a shaky plea he barely manages to hide. She hears it anyway, smiling at him in that way that says she **knows**. She sees him, truly into him, past the fleshy exterior, through his muscles and bones and into his soul. "_ _Whenever and wherever you want."_

_He smiles, too, a weight on his chest lifting._

_"But not all the time.” Her voice changes pitch, the weight on his chest slamming back down along with whatever window to her heart she had left open. “One psychopath per TARDIS don't you think?"_

_The smirk on her face says her mask is firmly back in place, But he sees her, too, hiding the damage, burying her grief behind a too bright smile and easy flirtation._

_River takes a deep, steadying breath. "Okay," she exhales, and he waits for her to choose her words. He waits to see if she'll let him in. "This book I'm going to write.” She doesn’t and it feels like he’s lost yet another Pond. “ Melody Malone. I presume I'm going to send it to Amy to get it published."_

_He deflates again, running a hand over his face and pretending he doesn't see straight through her disguise. "Yes. Yes." He sighs, doing his best to muster up a smile. This is his role to play, to let her surge on, distance and dodge her pain. She needs the distraction because being strong is what River Song does best, what she falls back on. Her strength the only constant in the long line of monsters that would see her crumble. She doesn't like for others to see the chinks in her armor. Showing weakness wasn't an option, not to her enemies, not to strangers, and especially not to him._

His eyes flick to her, noting the ever familiar tension in her frame. Frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, the kind that tells him she'd sooner shoot the source of her distress and have done with it. River doesn't like to be touched when upset, a lesson he learned from many a sore jaw. In the old days, the Doctor would have kept his distance and pretended not to notice how her jaw flexes. He'd have flashed her a smile neither of them believed, punched in random coordinates, and together they would lose themselves in the mundane. 

As he watches her now, his fingers twitch to comfort her, to betray the most basic rule between them. It feels like they can be so much more than obvious lies and fruitless deceptions. In this world where she can watch him without wondering when the day she fears most will find her and he can look at her without the memory of her death burning behind his eyes, old rituals seem somehow lacking. Habits born out of necessity seem more like burdens. Ignoring and pretending feel out of place in this new relationship they're building. Maybe in this charade where he isn't quite him and she isn't completely her and there are no strings or roles to play, where she's not a psychopath and he's not an ageless God, he doesn't have to pretend not to notice and she won't feel the need to hide. Maybe in this bubble in which they reside, he can be strong and she won't have to run away. 

With nervous, flexing fingers, he swallows the urge to ignore the telltale signs of her body the way he's done a thousand times before; and, instead takes a steadying breath before resting his hand on her shoulder. River tenses, clearly surprised by the gesture. But her footfalls slow, glancing at his hand then up to meet his eyes, where he's smiling down at her in a way he hopes is comforting and not at all fearful that she'll shoot him. Whatever she sees must comfort her because River's shoulder relaxes under his palm, her cheek curling in a soft smile that makes him want to blush, though he isn't sure why.

River's gaze leaves his, focusing instead on the path ahead. The worry lines on her face have faded, the only shadows left to darken her features those cast by the setting sun. Feeling suddenly bold, his hand drops, skirting down her arm until his fingers tangle with hers. She doesn't tighten her grip, but she doesn't make an excuse to pull away either, like he expects her to, like she normally would. 

Something unknots in his chest at the feel of her hand in his, light, tentative, fragile. It’s quiet comfort a sharp contrast to the communicator sitting heavily in his breast pocket. He should mention it. He _wants_ to mention it. It irks him almost as much as the problem itself that she never told him about the weapon, more knowledge he wasn't privy to, that she felt she needed to hide. Perhaps it's just a relic of her younger days, some crude adventure she never thought to or didn't want to mention. More likely it was closer to the Library, closer to the end, when she was seeing him less and less and seeing his young, clueless self more. She might not have told him because she couldn't. Secrets and spoilers and he hates them almost as much as he hates himself. He hates the thought of her seeking help he couldn't give, that there was ever a time she couldn't trust him with everything, that she might not trust him now.

He burns with the need to know why she kept it from him, to ask if she trusts him, if he's worthy. There was a time he would have, when he turned to her at every corner for reassurance. He bites his tongue against the urge now. It's her turn to need him.

It's not easy balancing the weight of their past with this new blossoming friendship. Who they are and what they were and what they could be. _I love you_  and  _where to next_  and  _by the by, do you happen to be harboring a dangerous weapon on your person?_ What's forming between them is too new, too delicate to withhold any more strain and he doesn't want to push her away. He is rediscovering her in brand new ways, testing paths they were never able to travel along before. He wants to be someone she can trust with her worries and fears, someone she can lean on without the worried weight of foreknowledge the way she never could before.

What they had was strong, but flawed. It was bittersweet bliss. It was agony masked by dancing and endearments, days they ran from and to and with. It was as precious as it was fragile, a glass menagerie of moments he wouldn't trade for anything. But it's nothing compared to what they could be. And if he can, with this new chance to start again, he wants to rebuild even stronger, to give her what she deserves rather than simply making the best of the allotted time the universe left behind. 

Their hands slip away as they approach the TARDIS, whatever the gesture may have meant proving as elusive as the warmth of her skin as her hand retreats back to her side. The doors open before he can even snap his fingers, inviting them inside with comforting hums he knows aren’t for his benefit.

“Thank you.” River offers, and he isn't sure if she's thanking him for his support or his taxi service, but it doesn't really matter. For River, the Doctor gladly offers both.

“Don’t mention it.” He smiles up at her, already to the console and flipping switches. River hangs back, leaning against the railing just like her mother always used to. His lips twitch even further at that. Not long ago it pained him to even find evidence of their existence on his ship. Now here he is, thinking fondly on one while another stands only a few feet away. 

 “You can come in if you like." River speaks again. "I suppose I owe you a cup of tea after today."

Puzzled, the Doctor pokes his head around the time rotor. “In where?”

“My house.” She pauses. “Unless you don’t want to-“

“No. Er, I mean, yes, obviously." He stutters, rounding the console to face her, "But why?”

“You’re taking me home.”

“Oh, right.” The Doctor blinks. "Why? Did you forget something?"

It's her turn to look puzzled, brow furrowing as she says, “You heard what Casia said. Same as doctors, There’s nothing we can do-“

“Yeah, well.” He yanks the zip zag plotter just to occupy his hands. “Telepaths are idiots, too.”

Her eyes are on him, sharp and calculating, arms folding tightly across her chest as she asks, “Why is this so important to you?”

“Because you’re- I mean, it’s important to you, isn’t?” Worry splashes over him like a bucket of ice water, cold and startling. Maybe her missing memories aren't that important to her, after all. Maybe her life would carry on just fine without his presence.

"Yes. It's important." She finally answers, the weight on his chest lifting instantly. 

“Then it’s important to me. Now," he begins his enthusiastic display of piloting his ship, tossing levers and turning dials. "Hear me out. What if the blocks aren't  due to injury or download error. What if someone put them there on purpose? What if there's something someone doesn't want you to remember?"

"Okay. But what? And who?"

"I don't know yet." He spins back around, already typing coordinates. "But I think we should go to your office, see what you've been up to lately. Keep our eyes pealed for anything out of the ordinary."

"That's your plan?" River deadpans, all disbelief and incredulity as she comes to stand by his side. "You want to go snooping about my office looking for clues like bloody Scooby Doo?"

"It's a plan in progress. And don't be ridiculous. We're hardly Scooby Doo. We don't have a van. We have a time machine, much cooler."

She doesn't consent to his plan or even crack a smile. River simply observes him like he is some enigma she can't quite figure out, suspicion sprinkled between syllables as she queries, "What do you get from all this?" 

He stills from his fidgeting to find her eyes. "Is helping not enough?"

River huffs out a laugh, "Not for most people."

"I'm not most people."

Her eyes soften, but she holds his intense gaze, thinking, deciding, choosing. The Doctor is hypnotized, caught up in imaging the tangled current of her thoughts, wishing more than anything that he could peak inside. He misses the feel of her mind against his as they'd problem solve. The speed of it rushing through scenarios like a car driving too fast on the motorway, sharp turns and missed exits, complete control but a little bit recklessness. The answer always finding them like a sudden brick wall that was bright and obvious and had been there all along. 

She's left to find whatever answer she's looking for on her own this time.

The ship lands with a soft shudder and River lets out a deliberate sigh. "Alright then Scooby," she concedes, a smirk curling her lips. "Go sniff us out some trouble."

A grin blooms across his face at her consent. She's decided, probably against her better judgement, to once again bet on him. His bad girl never could resist a risk. Or maybe she feels the pull between them as acutely as he does. 

"If anything, I'm Fred." The Doctor quips, watching her as he walks backwards toward the door. "He's the good looking, clever one right?"

" _He_ is." River stalks after him. "Jury's still out on you though."

"Which bit, clever or good looking?"

"Yes. Now turn around before you hurt yourself."

He does, opening the TARDIS doors to reveal the campus of Luna university. Before him is a quad speckled with students lying on synthetic grass, enjoying an afternoon under the holo-sun. At first glance, one can hardly notice they were inside the moon and not at a proper Earth university. Humans were funny like that. They stared up in wonder at the majestic silver thing in the sky, dreamed about it, made up stories, and eventually conquered it, spreading across it and within it and terraforming it. They came all this way just to make it look exactly like home.

The holo-sky is rather dull today, blue and cloudless, but it’s a sight better than what they would have this far beneath the crust, sheltered from radiation, comets, and any other passing debris. By this century, practically the entire center has been hollowed out and replaced with houses and shopping centers and little markets. It started off, as things often do, as one crew, one lab, and grew and grew until eventually evolved into an entire economy, complete with the first off world university.

The surface, however, remains relatively the same apart from the solar panels and biodomes. Among the craters, there now stand oxygen and produce farms alike. They’re off limits to the public, of course. But they'll let you go just about anywhere if you tell them you're the Intergalactic High Counselor of the Orion Sector, which is exactly how they ended up _basking in the Earth light, the blue planet turning gracefully before their very eyes. Grass tickles their skin, the potent and refreshing smell of pine perfuming the air. Her head rests in the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her and his thumb stroking absentmindedly over her hip. River's shampoo mingles with the air around them, honeysuckle and pine and the warmth of her body against his. She feels like the comfort of spring even among the dark, vast emptiness of space._

_River lets out a heavy, satisfied sigh and the Doctor chances a glance at her to find she isn't watching the Earth turn at all. She distracted by a spot on his jacket, fingers tracing over a small hole in need of patching. "Bout time to retire this old thing." The Doctor muses. "Maybe I'll give leather another go. Did you know I used to have a leather one?"_

_She hums in agreement, but the sunshine in her smile isn't as bright as it should be. In fact, she's been unusually quiet all day._

_“Are you nervous about your exams?”_

_River snorts. “Why would I be? I already know I pass. You’re rubbish at keeping spoilers.”_

_"Still, a good girl like you, I’m sure you’ve been studying.”_

_She tilts her head up to grin at him. “Oh yes. Hal has been helping me hit the books **relentlessly**.”_

_“The android?" He scoffs. "Well no wonder you’ve been cranky. They make rubbish study partners and even worse boyfriends.”_

_River props up on an elbow, arching a challenging eyebrow. “Know someone better, do you?”_

_“I could think of one person in particular.” He meets her gaze, straightening his bow tie in the least subtle way possible. River rolls her eyes in a way that’s all endearment and not nearly as annoyed as she'd like him to believe. The Doctor simply grins at her, leaving River no choice but to tug on his cone party hat and let it snap back down onto his floppy hair. The only surprise is that she waited so long to assault him with it. No headgear was sacred or safe around her._

_“Not everything is an excuse to wear a ridiculous hat, you know.”_

_Still rubbing at his sore head, he argues, “You graduate tomorrow. What better excuse is there?”_

_She sighs, snuggling back into his side. “I suppose anything is better than that sombrero.”_

_“Just you wait till you see me in a fez. You’re going to love it.”_

_“Somehow sweetie, I doubt that.”_

_With a soft chuckle, he turns his head into her curls, breathing her in. She is mere breathes away from being his wife now. Those rough edges finally rounding into the River Song he’s been running with for centuries. The roaring recklessness dulling into a light simmer, and that rebellious streak she never does tame humming right beneath the surface._

_“I have three. Seats, I mean” She speaks, voice even and deliberately nonchalant. “They give them to everyone, for guests. You can come if you like.”_

_He smiles at the nervousness in her voice, inviting the only three people she truly cares about to her graduation. As if he would miss one of the most defining moments of her life. The day she becomes Doctor River Song._

_“Ill be there.” He tells her with certainty. He remembers it well, him and the Ponds crowded together, neither him nor Rory brave enough to mention the proud tears spilling over Amelia’s cheeks._

_River props up on her elbow once again, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. “You promise?”_

_He brushes her curtain of hair behind her ear, simply taking her in. She's breathtaking bathed in the Earth light, her glowing smile melting his hearts into a warm puddle in his chest. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”_

_River nods, opening her mouth to speak, but she hesitates. He hardly gets a chance to wonder what she was going to say before her demeanor flips like a switch, and she’s suddenly smirking down at him. “Are you going to have that look on your face the entire time?”_

_“What look?”_

_“Like I hung the stars.”_

_Yes, probably. It’s hard not to when he’s so utterly besotted. But such open adoration still makes her skittish. Unconditional love is something he’s still teaching her. So instead he scoffs and says, “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t hang stars. But I have seen you blow up a few. Actually, on second thought, forget I said anything. Don’t blow up any stars.” He adds the last bit with as stern a voice he can manage with her amused smirk and fond eyes piercing into him._

_“Must you be so contrary?”_

_"Yup." He taps her nose. “It's one of my most charming qualities.”_

_She flops back down, burrowing into him once again. “Well I hate it.”_

_That word has always been a reminder of her youth or of his, one they default to when one of them is too young to say what they really feel or the other isn’t ready to hear it. That other four letter word is much too big, too scary, too complicated. Hate is so much easier to cope with, to take back. But love, once said it never really goes away. It lingers in the air, echoes in your ears. It sits on your chest and marinates in the back of your mind. It waits, heavy on the tip of your tongue, ready to be said again and again. Admitting it, acknowledging the power another being holds over you is one of the scariest things there is._

_It is a leap of faith she isn’t ready to make._

_Tomorrow all of that changes. After being submerged in a watery prison, trapped within the subject of her childhood torment with nothing but stale air, a blue abyss, and hours of contemplation, suddenly a word wont seem so scary anymore. The fear of never saying it at all eclipsing all else. Tomorrow she proves that none but her shall dictate her life. Tomorrow she becomes his wife._

_“Nah,” he says, daring to press a kiss to her temple. “You really don’t.”_

 

River steps out after him, barely managing to stifle a huff at his choice of location. “Couldn’t you have parked us somewhere less conspicuous?”

“Could have. Didn’t.” He practically skips after her, smirking. “Why? Afraid to be seen with me?”

“Course not, sweetie.” She smirks right back. “Climbing out of small wooden box with a man young enough to be a student should do wonders for my reputation.”

He keeps stride with her, inclining his body towards hers and adopting a low, husky voice as he says, “But I’m not a student.”

River’s answering chuckle is sultry and secretive, shamelessly winking at him as she says, “Yes, but they don’t have to know that.”  

The Doctor spins around, spotting a group of students who quickly avert their gaze. And those aren’t the only curious eyes watching them as they make their way through the courtyard. They've caught the attention of nearly everyone this side of the quad. By sundown the entire student body would most definitely be speculating about the infamous Professor Song and the lanky student lucky enough to be escorting her. No matter their conclusions, the truth was both far simpler and infinitely more complex than anything the rumor mill would turn out. But River Song did love to be mysterious. One of the many constants of the universe: stars will be born and burn out, civilizations will come and go, but River Song shall forever remain a subject of scandal.

“What’s so funny?” She asks, and he looks up at her, feeling a bit like a deer in the headlights.

“Sorry?”

“You’re smiling.”

The ache in his cheeks tells him he had indeed been smiling, but he can't exactly tell her that’s just his normal reaction to the thought of her. “Just thinking it’s a perfect day for a walk. Is it day? I can never be sure on the moon.”

River snorts, clearly not buying his cover story. “The big orb in the sky is usually a clue.”

“And walking in general, do you call it moon walking or just regular walking? Can one do the moon walk while on the moon or would that be gratuitous?”

“That’s a question for the philosophy department, dear.” River sighs, reaching for the door of the building. “I’m an archeologist.”

“Yes, well, try not to beat yourself up about it. There’s always room for improvement.” The Doctor grins, and River simply rolls her eyes, stepping inside.

The halls are bustling with life. The impressively diverse student body by far the most natural thing inside the building. Everything about the structure reeks of 51st century synthetics. It still _looks_ like every other posh, stuffy campus, with their grand archways, vaulted ceilings, and carved mahogany entryways. But it’s not quite right. All those durable, convenient materials lacking in that distinctly natural, homey feel accompanied by anything found on the Earth's surface. One can’t feel the grain of the wood on these archways, the synthetic marble isn’t cool to the touch, and the libraries are almost exclusively digital, lacking that worn, dusty smell.

The air is the most noticeably wrong, over filtered and hyper purified. Not that it’s an unpleasant smell, more unsettling is that there’s no smell at all. No natural aromas of flowers or fresh cut grass, no car fumes or day to day annoyances to linger in the air. All subtle things that go unnoticed by Luna locals. But anyone from the 21st century would detect it immediately. Try as they might, humans never did manage to master the art and simplistic beauty of early Earth living. 

River leads the way through the winding halls, navigating with the ease and experience of a salmon instinctively finding its way upstream. He wonders if she notices the way people part for her as they pass, stealing glances at the gorgeous, golden haired, green eyed professor. River has a way about her, inspiring equal parts fear and adoration. The mad professor with her unscrupulous past and outlandish theories, who is friendly to all but holds an undeniable air of authority. As they make their way, people hardly even take notice of him, just another doe eyed school boy caught up in her wake. He quickly loses interest in watching people ogle his wife. It isn't as much fun when he can't claim her with an arm slung over her shoulder or wrapped possessively around her hips. Instead, he focuses on the walls around him, noting new trophy shelves and framed pictures of the latest athletic stars. They’ve done some renovating since he was last sprinting through these corridors,  _winding his way around corners and dodging stray fire from a very angry pepper shaker. It’s after hours, so he heads towards the only place that’s bound to be empty: the library. The old fashioned one with books and actual pages you have to turn, not the digitalized 51 st century 3-D e-readers._

_Well, he thought it would be empty at any rate, until he rounds a bookshelf, colliding with the soft, surprised, and slightly irritated form of River Song. She barely has time to look cross with him before more erratic laser fire explodes above their heads._

_"Don't just stand there! Run!" The Doctor shouts, their hands joining with all the grace of a well choreographed dance. They take off down the hallway in unison, leaving her books scattered about the floor._

_"Is that a Dalek?"_

_"No flies on the archaeologist."_

_River ducks, barely avoiding having the top of her hair singed off. "Why are we running from a Dalek?!"_

_"Because running toward a Dalek would be silly." He singsongs, tugging her around a sharp corner and coming to a halt behind the safety of a bookshelf._

_"But this is my university." River hisses, drawing her gun._

_"Yep. And that's a Dalek. Do keep up River."_

_She scowls at him in a way that makes him wonder if she plans on_ _shooting him after she's finished with their attacker. "How did it get here?"_

 _He looks away, mumbling guilty as he peaks around the corner. "_ _I may have lured it."_

 _"You **lured**  it here?!"  She spits, _ _wide eyed and angry._

_"Always focusing in the negative!" He growls back. "What are you doing in a dark library after hours anyway?”_

_“I was trying to study. The scrolls I wanted haven't been digitalized.”_

_“And coming in the day was, what, too ordinary for you?”_

_“What’s got you so cross? Want time alone with your tin girlfriend did you?” She smirks, considering him in that Rivery way that says she already knows the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “Or are you jealous because you think I’ve been here in the dark with one of mine?”_

_He huffs, not bothering to dignify that with a response._

_River interprets his silence as victory, looking entirely too smug as she lets the matter slide. "What’s your plan?"_

_"Uh.." The Doctor scratches his cheek, peeking around the shelf. "Disable that Dalek."_

_"That's not a plan! That's what comes after a plan."_

_"Oh, everyone's a critic!"_

_"I can't believe you would lure a Dalek here without a plan. And you say I'm reckless."_

_"Oi," he bops her nose. "I'm the Doctor. I always have a plan."_

 

They’ve almost reached her office by the time he’s shaken himself out of his daydream, the distraction leaving him wanting for the confidence of a younger man. A man who was so sure of himself, of his place with her. Upside down and back to front and every which way but simple. He was so certain of the universe he occupied and his place in it. He knew they were for each other, always and completely. He knew their good natured bickering was just verbal foreplay. He knew she said I love you with rolling eyes and wicked smiles. While he said it by grandiose dates and _scoffing at her lesson plans. “Wrong. Wrong. Oh, very wrong. Honestly, River, what are you teaching these children?”_

_"Oh hush. That won't even be discovered until next century. It would be suspicious if I taught any different.”_

And above all, he knew that 'Professor' on her name plate meant time was running out. Which is why he purposefully landed here only a handful of times. But from the fleeting glances he gave it as he passed through, he could tell the room was lived in, that it had all the makings of a professor's office: stacks of graded papers, pens, and a mug with a perpetual lip stick stain. He also noticed that there was nothing distinctly hers. No family photos or personal mementos, like she didn't spend much time here, which was no surprise. River has never been one to keep still, always on the move. She much prefers the mud and grit of dig sites to red ink stains and florescent lights. 

Or he always thought she had. It's what he told himself as an excuse to lure her away from her work, constantly trying to convince her to cancel lectures and come away with him. " _No, Doctor. Now stop asking.”_

_"Oh come on River. It’s just a lesson. It's not like it's anything important.”_

_River huffs, setting her books down with more force than necessary. “Well it's important to me. What I do here is every bit as worth while as what you do."_

_He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I mea-.”_

_"I know exactly what you meant. It’s good having commitments, Doctor. Maybe when you grow up you should try it sometime._

She was right. He had needed to grow up. He'd always seen what she did as just a job, not something she liked to do. It never occurred to him that River liked a bit of normal, that it balanced a whole hell of a lot of abnormal she’d grown up with. The same normal he stole a box and ran from. But a few hundred years without her showed him what he was missing, that not everything worth doing involved running and risking your life. Now he understands that little victories mean just as much as the grand ones, that being still doesn't always mean being bored. He learned the difference between being alone and being lonely. That's all he had been without her, completely alone in a crowded room, nothing quite as fulfilling as it once was, no triumph enough to appease the ache in his soul. The miracle of a second chance with her is enough to shock him back to life, to want to make things right, to stop and take notice of the little things he never bothered to before. 

"This is me." River announces as they approach a light brown door, her name and title inscribed on a bright gold plaque. “What are we looking for exactly?”

“Things that seem out of place. Anything you don’t remember that seems a little odd.”

“You mean other than you?” She asks with a playful voice, her quick fingers typing in the entry code.

He chuckles. "More like meetings you don’t remember attending or unearthing archaic, dusty things you really shouldn’t have.”

A green verification light appears on the panel and River pushes the door open. “That’s half my curriculum.” She hums, throwing him a look that usually precedes him ending up in handcuffs, for one reason or another. “Forbidden bones are always the most fun to polish.”

She enters, heading straight for a filling cabinet and riffling through its contents. She doesn’t catch the way the Doctor's eyes light up as he steps inside, struck by how one room can look exactly the same and yet remarkably different. He makes his way around to her desk, new found clarity allowing him to see all the things he'd over looked before. No longer burdened by foreknowledge, he doesn't feel the need to shut himself off, to compartmentalize. Being in this room now is like looking at her with new eyes. Eyes that crave detail rather than detachment, soaking in every corner and color like a blind man seeing a rainbow for the first time. One glance proves that he was wrong before. Her office is littered with discernible items that are uniquely hers: a classic Earth style calendar and bound notebooks in a time where almost everything was exclusively electronic. Call it her 21st century up bringing or the habits of an archeologist, but River loved the feel of instruments in her hands, the crinkling of paper as it turns and the satisfaction in sore fingers after taking a full page of notes. All things he'd subconsciously filed away but never asked about, too busy distancing himself to spare the ache, too busy settling on the idea that he knew everything about her to realize he only knew the things he wanted to.

As if to prove his inner thoughts correct, his eyes instantly land on a framed picture of River and an excavation team he doesn't recognize. The dust covered crew is smiling triumphantly, crowded around some crumbling tower or would be alter. But it's not the ruins that catch his attention. It's the engraving on the frame, an ancient language that translates to, " _We dig Professor Song_." He smiles to himself at the cheesy momento, wishing he could name the people in the photograph as easily as River undoubtably can. He's starting to suspect he might never know everything there is to know about River Song. There's too much to know, too much to inquire about, and too much she'd rather he didn't.

"So," he breaks the silence, stepping away from her desk and toward a bookshelf. "What made you want to teach here at Luna?" Ex con or no, with her credentials she could have taught anywhere. 

"I studied here." She answers simply, attention focused on flipping through one of her folders. 

 “And? It's a big universe. Why come back?"

"Just nostalgic, I suppose." Like him, she always came back to her favorites. 

"You enjoyed student life then?"

"Oh yes," She chuckles, pausing in her search to flash him a mischievous grin. "I enjoyed one aspect in particular. His name was Aaron, or Erin, depending on the swappable body parts." 

The Doctor's face scrunches up, not wanting to imagine her near anyones swappable body parts that aren't his. "Not what I meant." He grumbles, turning his attention back to the bookshelf where he can sulk in peace. The shelf is sprinkled with little trinkets, none of which meaning anything to him. Though, he's starting to think they might mean something to her. There's a pattern to the nicnacs he once thought to be pointless, simply there to fill space or serve as paper weights. Like the framed photo, everything here is a gift. Scattered about are little keepsakes, all with notes, tags, or letters of appreciation from smitten students. 

“Professor?” A young woman speaks, and the Doctor and River look up to find one of said students standing in the doorway. Vinvoccian, by the looks of it, her green skin contrasting brilliantly with her bright red top. He's tempted to make a joke about Christmas or possibly the Zocci, but his last encounter with their kind taught him they could be quite sensitive on the matter. 

"Xarida." River smiles. "Come in, darling."

She does, tossing the Doctor a curious look before turning her attention back to River. "I thought you'd already left for the expedition. The one to the abandoned library."

"You caught me just in time." River lies easily. "Did you need something?"  

"Just here to drop off my essay." The girl shrugs, handing over an impressively thick stack of papers.

"Thank you, dear." River thumbs through the pages, seemingly pleased with the girl's work.

The Doctor tries to mind his business, but he can feel the girls eyes on him. "Don't I know you?" Xarida asks. "I'm sure I've seen you around before."

"I doubt it. This is my friend, John."

"The Doctor."

The Doctor and River answer in unison, leaving the poor girl looking back and forth between them, confused. 

River arches a bemused brow at him, hand on her hip. "You actually introduce yourself that way? To strangers?"

He purses his lips, eyes wide and innocent as he asks, "Is that weird?" The women share a glance before River shrugs the exchange away, depositing the girl's essay onto her desk.

"Right." Xarida nods. "Nice to meet you Doctor John. Oh, and there was someone asking for you earlier, Professor."

River's lips curl like she's tasted something sour. "Not another member of the archive committee, I hope. It's all paperwork with those people."

"I don't think so." Xarida giggles. "He was much too cute for that."

River hums, "Well in that case, did he leave a phone number?"

At which point the Doctor happily tunes them out, rolling his eyes as he finds something else to plunder through. He's about to go poke through more of her files when he nearly trips over a small box tucked half under her desk. He kneels down, pulling out a planner and flipping through it absentmindedly. It's old and mostly filled up with staff meetings and lesson plans so he quickly loses interest. Tossing it back where he found it, he pushes aside more planners and date books, sifting through the contents until his fingers close around something small and glass. Withdrawing it, he discovers that it's a snow globe, the picturesque scene inside of a tall, jagged mountain surrounded by sparking clouds. He twirls it fondly in his fingers, watching as tiny, glitter prisms rain down, casting rainbows on the city below. He recognizes the location instantly. It's one of their many date spots, even if he didn't realize it was a date at the time. River gave him a snow globe just like this one a long time ago. He wonders how she came by this one. There's no note attached and it's not on display. Not a gift then. But it smells too new to be from when they went together. Even in her time stream that was ages ago. Come to think of it, he doesn't remember ever seeing it in her office before. That would mean she went without him or...

"When did you get this?"

River looks up from her conversation with Xarida. "Um, I'm not sure. I don't recognize it."

The Doctor frowns down at the trinket, lifting it to his lips and tasting it. An act he regrets instantly as a pungent, bitter taste invades his mouth, clinging to his tongue like cocoa powder. No, worse than that, more like Paprika. No... _Time energy._  He fumbles with the trinket, examining every minute detail of the mountain, cloud content, and city layout for anything that doesn't make sense. But it's fruitless. The tiny keepsake is perfect, exactly as it should be. Exhausted with the inside, he turns his attention to the glass casing, fingers running along the smooth surface for inaccuracies. It's flawless, even down to the rough edges on the plastic stand. With a furrowed brow, he flips the trinket, examining the bottom and _oh!_

"River." He calls, looking up at her seriously. "I know where we need to go next."

 "Where?" River asks curiously, and he swallows hard. 

"Asgard."


	7. Asgard and the Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to give a quick thank you to everyone who has been commenting. They really do mean so much and knowing people are enjoying it really keeps me motivated. So thank you. :)
> 
> And also, this chapter was getting to be a beast, so I had to split it in half, and well, you'll see...

 

“Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.” -Haruki Murakami

* * *

 

_Valhalla. The tallest mountain in the realm, it's peak a jagged dagger, effortlessly piercing white cotton clouds. The smooth granite surface sparkles and shines, refracting light like a thousand tiny prisms, casting rainbows down from the heavens. With its imposing cliff faces, making it nearly impossible to climb, and its raging rapids, winding through the heart of the rock and spilling out in the form of angry waterfalls, it's no wonder why so many myths of gods and heroes and tricksters originate here. The very essence of the lone mountain tells of divinity, of wisdom and solitude and serenity._

_On a clear, calm day, when the clouds have receded and the river runs calm, one can see for miles. From its height, all of Asgard is laid bare before it. Towns, valleys, and deserts turned to specks in the distance._

_It's the perfect place for a picnic._

_He learned early on that River Song did nothing by halves, settling their blanket right on the edge of a waterfall. And he means directly on the edge. She's somehow suspended them over the water, mere meters from where it crests and plummets off the side of the cliff face. The water runs calm today, it’s current lazy and temperature warmed by the sun. Beneath them, he can feel the current pulsing, feel the pull of softly lapping waves; and yet, they remain still, hovering above the surface like a heatwave flickering over summer pavement._

_The Doctor leans over the side of the blanket, his own slightly distorted, spiky haired reflection frowning back at him as he observes the nearly invisible force field keeping them afloat. The Doctor runs curious fingers over the shimmering surface, making ripples in the water but not penetrating its surface. When he inspects his fingers, he finds them dry. Unsatisfied with his findings, he chances a lick, tasting for any static feedback and trying to pinpoint exactly how she managed this._

_"You won't figure it out that way." Comes River’s knowing voice. "But by all means, keep eating the decorations. The picnic I brought was just for show anyway.”_

_“I wasn’t eating it. Just, you know, sampling.” He turns his attention back to River and the diverse collection of snacks she brought with her. It seems she’s put quite a bit of thought into it, gathering food from all over the Galaxy. Among them being champagne from a moon he's never heard of, grapes grown on a planet devoted solely to vineyards, and chocolate made from the finest cocoa in the nine realms. She’s even made him a banana daiquiri, using genuine Earth products by the looks of it. It’s an awful lot of effort just for a picnic, and he finds himself staring at the beverage, that’s far too personal to be a coincidence, wondering if they do this often. Does she come here with some other face that shares his name? Do they laugh and drink cocktails and pretend the way they skip across each other’s time line isn’t a disaster waiting to happen?_

_"It's not poisoned.” River’s voice breaks his concentration and he shifts his frown from the beverage to her face._

_"I know that how, exactly?"_

_She shrugs, forever unflappable in the face of his candid remarks. “Poisoning drinks isn’t my style. Too twentieth century."_

_“You have a preferred method of poisoning people?”_

_“Oh, absolutely.” Her answer is unnervingly sincere, as if he’d asked her if she had a preference between chocolate and vanilla._

_“But you’re not going to tell me what it is.”_

_She smirks at him over the top of her champagne glass and he resigns himself to the answer he knows is coming. Bloody spoilers._

_River takes to nibbling at a biscuit, her legs tucked up under her in a deceptively innocent manner. “You’ll find out one day, sweetie. I promise.”_

_"Somehow, that doesn't comfort me."_

_River reaches across the blanket for his beverage, making a show of bringing it to her lips and swallowing pointedly before handing it back to him. "See? Harmless."_

_Satisfied, he takes a sip, swirling the liquid in his mouth before swallowing it down.  "Needs more banana. Luckily," he digs into his breast pocket, smiling gleefully when he finds his prize. “I always bring a banana to a party.”_

_River rolls her eyes like he’s a lost cause, shuffling back and making room to lounge across the large blanket. Closing her eyes, she lets out a happy sigh, content to simply enjoy the silence._

_He finishes his banana like he's on a deadline, unable to remember the last time he truly ate. He hasn't felt up to it since- well, too long now. Pushing that thought aside, he begins rummaging through the other goodies River brought with her, finding she has rather oddly specific taste: a bag of marshmallows, but only the pink kind; a classic Yorkshire pudding; and a bowl of something fried, lathered in some type of custard. For safety's sake, he sticks to the grapes and chocolate, trying his best to quiet the inner workings of his assiduous mind._

_There are birds singing in the trees and waterfalls rumbling behind him and below him. Above him clouds cast rainbows as far as the eye can see, and in the distance, a city dances, busy and bright and alive with celebration. But he can’t seem to focus on any of that, his attention instinctively drawn to the woman beside him. It's the first time he's ever had the chance to really look at her. Oh he's seen her before, her image burned into his subconscious, never to be forgotten. He's seen her bargain and shout and run. He's seen her in awe and he’s seen her disconcerted, watched as she talked her way out of danger and laughed in the face of certain death. But he's never simply looked, not while sitting still. He's never noticed the way the gentle breeze ruffles her hair or how her skin bakes in the Asgardian sun, drinking in every ray and converting it to soft, honey skin. He’s never heard her hum with such quiet satisfaction._

_It’s hard to see her as an omen when she’s sprawled out before him, delicate hands folded across her waist and cotton dress gently rustling in the breeze. In this moment, she’s not such a scary sight, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth and fingers tapping out a tune only she can hear. She doesn’t look intimidating or foreboding; she simply looks happy in all the ways he both hoped and feared she would._

_River opens one eye to peak at him and he quickly averts his gaze, hoping she hadn’t felt his scrutinizing eyes on her. "So, why the mountain?" He asks if for no other reason than to fill the empty air between them._

_"I thought about getting a spot in valley, but,” she lets out a long, coquettish sigh. “I know how you like to be on top."_

_“Well, the view is better from-“ He stops short when he glances over to find a smirk tugging at River’s lips. “Oh, you meant…” He clears his throat, flushing for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol or the brightness of the sun. Luckily, he’s saved by a chirping noise resonating from River’s discarded shoulder bag._

_“Well," River announces with a reluctant sigh, reaching into her bag and withdrawing the source of the repetitive noise. "As enjoyable as it may be making that pretty face blush, I’m afraid that’s my cue.” She pulls out a vortex manipulator of all things, a highly illegal and extremely rare form of time travel. They're worth a fortune on the black market. And yet here she is using it as an alarm clock._

_“Where are you going?” He asks, mildly curious as to why someone with access to time travel would be bound by a schedule. But as tradition would have it, her answer only furthers his confusion._

_“Eden.” She says simply, offering him a saucy smile as she gathers up a few bits and tucks them in her bag._

_Attention thoroughly peaked, he sits a little straighter. “As in The Garden of?”_

_“That’s the one. Enchanted fruit. Talking snakes. Clothing optional.” She pauses in her packing to raise a suggestive eyebrow at him. “Want to come?_

_It would be a lie to say he wasn’t tempted by the idea, but, "Maybe when I’m older."_

_River laughs, pleased and full of promise. “I’ll hold you to that, sweetie.” She swings the bag over her shoulder, making a few final adjustments on her vortex manipulator. Then she pauses, face lighting up. Something must occur to her because she begins digging through her bag once more, a triumphant smile blooming across her cheeks as she finds what she’s searching for._

_“Oh, and pretty boy.” She calls, tossing him a small, round object._

_He catches it easily, fingers crinkling the thin layer of wrapping paper. “What’s this?”_

_“A gift.” She chimes, leaving him feeling oddly touched at the sentiment._

_“You didn’t have to buy me anything.”_

_“Who says I bought it?” She winks at him playfully; but before he has time to determine if she’s joking or not, River taps a button on her manipulator, vanishing in a puff of smoke and crackling air._

_The Doctor looks down at the object in his hands, carefully peeling away the wrapping. A gift from a woman like River Song. It could be anything. For instance, a small glass orb. No, not just an orb, a snow globe. Encased within it is a jagged, sparkling mountain, a microcosm of the very one on which they just shared a picnic. He rolls the smooth glass in his fingers, admiring the flecks of color as they tumble haphazardly within. On the bottom there’s an engraving, nothing flashy or mysterious, just one word, one simple word that reads, “Valhalla.”_

 

 

Again he finds himself rolling smooth glass between his fingers, watching as tiny balls of color dance around a granite cliff face. Except this time it’s wrong. The secluded, majestic mountain side isn't his destination. When they land, there won't be a picnic awaiting them. No soft spring breeze or the babbling of running water because this time there was no cheeky message on his psychic paper asking him to _'be a dear and bring a blanket.'_ This time, all he has is a hunch and an incorrectly labeled snow globe. So Instead of a quiet afternoon for two, they'll be met by the crowded city of Galgvior, nearly a decade after and half a planet away.

"Not that I’m complaining, but what makes you so sure we need to come here? It couldn’t have just been the snow globe." Never one to be idle, River has perched herself on console room steps, tinkering away with settings on her blaster.

"It's not the snow globe. It's what's written on it." The Doctor tosses River the item in question and she catches it easily, studying the glass trinket as he explains, "The engraving says Galgvior when that is clearly Valhalla." 

Unimpressed, River shrugs. "Maybe the manufacturer just made a mistake." 

"Or maybe it's a message."

"You think someone planted it." River abandons her perch on the stairs to glide towards him.

A trinket he's sure to recognize, reeking of time energy and found in her office. Their picnic spot incorrectly labeled with a city he's never been to. Oh yes, there’s definitely something going on here. "I think it's an invitation."

"From the same person who left you the note I was in the hospital?" River returns the trinket to the Doctor, his fingers feather light against her palm as he takes it back.

"Probably." He nods, gaze shifting from her to the trinket. "Hopefully." If his voice is as uncertain as he feels, River doesn't mention it. He has his theory, a tentative thread of hope that this small orb is a sign that everything works out, that's she's stringing him along, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs from some point in her future. He holds onto that hope like a promise settled safely between his hearts.

While the logical part of his brain speaks loud and clear, listing off all the reasons this is right and rationalizing the events that brought them here, he can’t quite shake another voice in the back of his mind. One that whispers of doubt and worry, a nagging sense of dread that he's missing something right in front of him.

"What's this?" River's voice cracks like a whip in the silent room, startling him out of his thoughts and preventing his blank stare from boring a hole right through the trinket. River hasn't noticed, eyes focused intently on the display screen. 

When the Doctor looks up at the monitor, he sees River and his former self spread out on a blanket, his memory playing out before him like a home movie. A quick glance at the controls tells him they've landed, but not when he instructed the Old Girl to. Sure, they're in Galgvior, but she's landed them the same day their former selves went to Valhalla. The Doctor gives a silent sigh, barely restraining the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. He's had quite enough today without his stroppy ship throwing a TARDIS tantrum because she thinks she knows best. 

"It's temporal playback." He answers. "Like a window in time. She's telling you that you've been to this planet before."

"But why would that matter? Valhalla’s half a world away."

"Because,” He smacks the monitor a little harder than necessary.  “Crossing one’s timeline is dangerous."

The ship groans at him, somehow managing a scowl in spite of a lack of face. There's probably more to it than her trying to force him into a conversation he isn't ready to have. Most likely she’s trying to tell him something. But what? Why Asgard? Why now? Why force them to cross their own timeline? Playing with time, especially their time, was like piecing together shards of glass. It requires precision and finesse. Hold too tightly and it shatters. One wrong move and there's bound to be blood on your hands.

“It's a shame I can't remember it." River says and he shakes the haze of worry away, quieting his mind so he can focus instead on the sound of River's voice. "He's rather pretty, isn't he?" 

The Doctor scoffs. “As attractive as a man in sandshoes can be.”

River turns an amused gaze on him. “Says the man in a bow tie.”

On instinct, one of the Doctor’s hands flies to his bow tie, shielding it from her harsh words. She said that like bow ties were a _bad thing_. Did she-? Surely that didn’t mean-? "Well,” He pouts. “It's better than Captain Spiky Hair with his boring brown suit, which, I might add, is much too tight."

River gives a noncommittal hum, staring at his former self with far too much interest to be considered decent. The Doctor looks away, distracting himself by buffing out a smudge on the console with more enthusiasm than needed. Not that he's jealous. Can one even be jealous of themselves?

"A girl could do worse. As far as husbands go." River speaks again, and he nearly chokes on his own saliva in shock, covering it as smoothly as possible with a cough.

"What, er, what makes you so sure you're married?" 

"Look at that neckline. We're definitely sleeping together."

The Doctors eyes study the River on the screen, confused by the simple ensemble. Not that what she was wearing was in any way boring, but River never wore anything too daring in his early days, always careful not to give anything away too soon. This is no exception, her simple summer dress flowing down to her knees. The sweetness of her appearance betrayed only by his knowledge of the knife she kept strapped to her inner thigh. Giving up, he shakes his head. “I don't understand. What's special about your clothes?"

"Absolutely nothing.” River smirks. “That's how I know we're married. You only dress up for people you're trying to sleep with, people you used to sleep with and want to make jealous, or “she shrugs, "Someone you're conning." 

"That's ridiculous. They could just be two friends having a picnic.” His eyes find the screen again, voice less certain than it was a moment ago. “Alone. On a waterfall. In Valhalla."

River’s eyes flick up to him like he's precious and so very naïve before turning her back on him and walking around to the other side of the console. His eyes follow her as she goes, hypnotized by the confident sway of her hips. "And then there's the fact that he can't keep his eyes off me." She sing-songs without ever looking back. The Doctor quickly schools himself, looking away and making his hands busy with turning off the monitor. Damn her for being so perceptive. She got that from her mother.

He can’t keep his eyes off her for long though, and when he chances another glance in her direction it's just in time to see she's headed for the door. "Where are you going?"

"Outside, obviously."

"But we can't. You’d be crossing your own time line and-“

"Nonsense, Valhalla and my past self are miles away. As long as I steer clear of that part of the planet, I'll be fine." She stares back at him, smug and stubborn; she got that from her mother, too. "Besides, it's a great time of year to be on Asgard." 

"And why's that?" The Doctor concedes, following her to the door. He's lost enough fights with her to know when to pick his battles. 

Rather than answer his question, River simply opens the door, assaulting his senses with the harsh light of day and an unprecedented cacophony of noise. He’s only momentarily disoriented before his vision adjusts, revealing the city of Galgvior in its full glory. Before them lies a scene unlike any other. Festive streets are filled with locals, tourists, and aliens alike, all gathering around shops and booths and street vendors. Some attendants are dressed plainly, while others adorn masks, and others still who sport elaborate costumes, covered from head to foot in sparkling armor. There is dancing and faux fighting and fire breathing, and in the sky above, fireworks burst and morph into dragons and monsters and gods before disintegrating into a spectrum of neon colors.  It’s breath taking to say the least, like a scene out of a Venetian carnival

River allows them a moment to gaze in wonder before she finally looks up at him and answers, "Ragnarok. Heard of it?" 

Of course he has.

"No.” He answers, locking eyes with her. “Tell me about it." 

River smiles up at him like he knew she would at being given the opportunity to flex her archaeology muscles.  "It's the end of the world." She purrs, voice silky and sexier than anyone has any right to sound when talking about an apocalypse. She slips out the door, glancing over her shoulder at him in a way that renders him helpless but to follow. "There are a few interpretations as to how," she continues. "But most commonly it's believed to be a great battle in which many gods and monsters meet their end. The world is purged by fire and then drown in water, leaving life to begin anew."

She's given him the cliff notes version. The full account of the story goes much deeper, but in its simplified form, he can't help the sense of déjà vu. Every species has their theories about how the end will come, but in every story, destruction always leads to life. But they hardly focus on that part. It's always so much easier to destroy than to build, even in fairytales. 

"They seem oddly excited about mass extinction." The Doctor notes, observing the copious amounts of smiling, laughter, and frivolity as they make their way through the crowded streets.

"Well, they are Vikings. It's an honor to die in battle. But these days it's less of a legend and more of an excuse to get drunk and throw a party." 

"A lot like saint Patrick's days then." It’s a poor attempt at humor, but River laughs anyway, the sound of her voice more musical and joyous than any of the festivities around him. He offers River his arm, she takes it, and together they make their way through the crowd. It’s easy to imagine the world ending in flames with the Asgardian sun sitting high in the sky, the oppressive heat making its presence known to the over crowded streets. Thankfully, the light breeze in the air provides enough of a reprieve to make the heat tolerable. And when it also happens to waft the smell of her shampoo in his direction, well, he forgets he ever had any complaints at all.

Drums and horns and operatic singing fill the air around them, and they find themselves drawn toward the sound. A mass of curious observers gathering around to watch as women in sheer, ethereal dresses with long flowing sleeves dance around men lying on the ground. But it’s more than just a dance; it’s a story of Valkyries ushering fallen soldiers to the afterlife. The tone is set by soft, sorrowful notes mixed with the pounding of drums. One long blow of a horn acts as a backdrop, climbing higher and higher in volume and intensity. Until suddenly, the music stops, a cloak of desolate silence settling over the scene. After a moment, the horn sounds again, the music morphing into a fast paced, animated tune that signals the dawn of new life. The steps of the dance change, audience members leaping into the center to join in the merriment.

At his side, River untangles her arm from his, leaving him to watch curiously as she begins pulling her hair into a sloppy up do. 

“We’re on Asgard." She tells him, mischievous green eyes flicking from him to the makeshift stage. "Best do as the Asgardians do.” 

"Dancing? Now? Is that sensible?"

"Sensible?" River’s nose scrunches adorably. "You may be the first person to ever accuse me of that.” With that, she flashes him a grin and disappears into the crowd.

"Just don't!" The Doctor shouts, then, losing her to the masses, sighs softly, "wander off."

She slips into the dance seamlessly, her movements as fluid and well timed as any Asgardian local. Leave it to River to know the steps of every ritualistic dance in the galaxy. Being decidedly less graceful, the Doctor takes the opportunity to venture into a nearby shop, lest someone try to drag him in as well. A tiny bell chimes as he opens the door and steps inside. It's empty save for the owner, who pokes his head out from the back room, greeting the Doctor with a smile before returning to his merchandise. It's much quieter in here, the ruckus of the crowd muted by stone walls and the hum of air circulators.

A giant window stands at the front of the shop, offering him an easy view of the synchronized spectacle outside. River is simple enough to spot, her mass of curls bobbing wildly even while contained on the top of her head.

Comforted by the knowledge that he can still keep an eye on her, he distracts himself with the curious items on display. There's an array of noisy children's toys that clack and click and spin. There are flowers with aromas that range from absolutely rank to something sickeningly sweet he can't quite place, like bubble gum wrapped in cotton candy and dipped in syrup. He finds hats of all shapes and sizes, some styled with horns and hammers and half a dozen other designs River would never let him out of the TARDIS wearing. 

He can't help the wistful smile born of those thoughts, wondering what she would do now if he came out wearing one. Would she shoot it on sight? Would she just laugh and roll her eyes? Or would she do nothing at all because, to her, he isn't hers to tease? 

He abandons the hats, leaving the melancholy thought behind.

It’s terrifying existing in this reality where their future together hasn’t already been set. But it’s liberating, too. They are no longer puppets of time. The strings the universe bound them by have been cut. Guilt no longer twists like a knife in his chest, effecting every decision, every calculated response and carefully considered endearment.

He used to imagine how their lives would have been different if it had been this way from the start, how much easier loving her would have been if he was free to do so without the guilt of foreknowledge. If he hadn't started their story on the last page, he doesn't think he would have run from her or fought against his own hearts for nearly as long. If the eyes that first saw her didn't know they'd be the cause of her death, he thinks loving her would have swallowed him whole. Falling for her wouldn't have been the slow creep of spring, blooming subtly and gently over time. It would have been instantaneous, a fixed burst of light, radiating and permeating and all consuming.

In the lonely hours, his traitorous brain used to spin scenarios, dreaming he'd met her in the most ordinary ways: bumping into her at the Alignment of Exedor, crash landing into a temple she happened to be excavating, or even unknowingly attending the same swanky party, his first glimpse of her from across a crowded room.  _Chandeliers and champagne. Chancellors and dignitaries and small talk and he's about to make his great escape when a flash of color catches his eye. In a sea of black and white tuxedos and bland, respectable dresses, he sees her. An angel, a diamond amongst coal, a moon in the night sky, eclipsing all the stars._

_He wonders who she is, this goddess in a simple gold gown with bouncy golden hair and lips the color of sin. He catalogs the way she floats around the room like royalty, laughing and charming as gracefully as a well practiced debutante._

_He watches people watch her, awestruck and envious eyes following her about the room like she were an embodiment of the hand of Midas, golden and priceless and deadly to touch. She doesn't notice or care that no one can take their eyes off her, and he finds he's equally as helpless but to stare. His eyes follow the curve of her body, long legs made longer with heels he swears could kill a man, the curve of her hips and waist the picture of an hourglass and a sharp, plunging neckline that shows off just enough skin to make him want to loosen his necktie. The elegant line of her collar bone gives way to delicate shoulders and neck and a full mouth that curves upward with secrets he feels compelled to discover. Her nose has a bump that begs to be traced by the tip of his finger and high cheekbones, flushed slightly pink from heat or alcohol or both._

_When he finally reaches her eyes, he discovers they're locked on his own. He flushes to the tips of his ears, but she simply smirks, shamelessly enjoying the feel of his eyes on her. Before he knows it, she's gliding towards him, hips swaying enticingly and eyes boring into his like a lioness before an attack. She holds him prisoner with the weight of her gaze alone, rendering him free of speech and thought and sense. Luckily for him, she doesn't expect him to speak or smile or say anything at all._ _She simply winds her hand behind his neck and pulls him into a burning kiss._

_His mystery woman tastes like trouble and smells like citrus and even though he knows nothing about her, his hands find a home on her hips with startling ease. He doesn't know what her name is or where she came from or why she's kissing him. But the moment she breaks away from the kiss and smiles up at him, he knows exactly who she is. He just hasn't met her yet._

 

All his favorite fantasies focus on one theme: a day where no body dies. The kind of meeting they should have had, would have had, if only the universe were fair. They deserved running and flirting and a chance to say hello before being forced to say farewell. They deserved an innocent moment to simply _linger outside the TARDIS together, ignoring the cold night air in favor of the warmth the other’s presence brings. She's wrapped in his trench coat, the broad shoulders swallowing her narrow ones, sleeves hanging past her wrists, and hem dragging through the alien terrain, staining the brown material a hideous green. He can't find it in himself to regret it though. He knows he shouldn't be as intrigued by her as he is. He shouldn't enjoy the back and forth as much as he does. But he never could resist a mystery, or a blonde, even if she is mad._

_And she is, utterly and completely. The size of her hair alone told him that. Never mind the fact that she leapt head first into danger without ever looking back. Never mind she's an archeologist and a time traveler. Never mind that she knows him and looks at him like she can read his mind before the thoughts even form in his head. Never mind the way her hips swing and hair catches the reflection of the sky, greedily soaking in the light of a thousand distant stars. Never mind she's from his future and simply speaking to her is as good as crossing his own time stream._

_He was never very good at following the rules anyway._

_"Where did you get it, by the way?" He doesn't need to clarify his statement. She somehow just knows he means her screw driver._

_The curvy enigma before him leans against his TARDIS, her small hand resting comfortably on her shapely hip and sounding awfully smug as she says, "You gave it to me."_

_He mimics her relaxed position, leaning his shoulder against the wood, crossing his feet at the ankles and casually folding his arms across his chest. "I wouldn't give my screwdriver to just anyone." The words sing song out of his mouth, playful and jovial in a way he hasn't been capable of since Donna left._ _He’s just met her and already he can see that she's special. This River Song is different than the others. Stunning, yes. Mysterious, definitely. But something else, too. Trustworthy, and perhaps a little dangerous._

_She leans in conspiratorially and he does the same, pulled to her by gravity. "Maybe I'm not just anyone." She whispers, the warmth of her breath ghosting over his cheeks. Then she pulls away, leaving him colder at the loss. "Or maybe I plucked it from your cold, dead hands." She smirks, "You'll just have to wait and see."_

_He chuckles in spite of himself, finding it hard to look anywhere but at her. There's fondness in her eyes. But the wicked curl of her lips makes his senses heighten, something secret shinning out of her, making him alert in all the best ways._

_"Come with me." The invitation blurts from his lips, surprising himself as much as it surprises her. He's not ready for a new companion, but for her, he's willing to try._

_"And where would you take me?" An elegant brow arches at him, but her voice is too whimsical to be patronizing._

_The Doctor shrugs, "Anywhere."_

_River merely laughs at him, tutting as she says, "You'll have to try a little harder than that, I'm afraid."_

_"Alright," he straightens, rising to her challenge. "Everywhere, then. You, me. Time, space. What do you say?"_

_Green eyes pierce into his brown ones. She's looking for something, someone; and the longer she stares the more nervous he becomes, feeling anxious and giddy in a way he hasn't felt since he was a boy._

_"Yes." She finally answers, and he brightens._

_"Yes?"_

_"Yes." She repeats. "But not today."_

_He doesn't have time to look disappointed before she lifts her hand and gives a crisp snap, making the TARDIS doors creak open and spill light all around them._

_"What did you- **How**  did you-?" He gapes, wide brown eyes watching her like she's the biggest anomaly the universe has ever seen. "No one can open a TARDIS that way." _

_She chuckles, a husky, knowing sound that makes his insides tingle. "The Doctor and I can."_

_"I am the Doctor."_

_Her wicked smirk slips from her lips, replaced by a smile he can only describe as wistful. "Yes sweetie," she lifts a gentle hand to straighten his tie. "You are."_

 

He settles near the window at the front of the shop, where the tackiest of tourist merchandise can be found. On display are shirts and coffee mugs and wall décor, all advertising major Asgardian landmarks and cities. There are even snow globes representing each of the nine realms, including the one that lured them here. Well, not exactly like that one. He doesn’t suppose all of them are encrypted with a secret message.

He checks, just in case, lifting each one to make sure the engraving on the bottom matches the landmark on display. They do, and the Doctor lets out a long, discouraged sigh. Coming here was a long shot in the first place; and now that he’s here, he finds himself completely at a loss as to what comes next.

Maybe it wasn’t a message at all. Maybe he’s just grasping at straws.

He turns his attention back outside, where he can see River has been pulled to the sidelines, sharing some kind of cone shaped beverage with the locals. The distributor of the drinks earns himself a playful swat on the arm and the Doctor’s lips curve into a scowl. Not that he minds her flirting. People flirt with his wife all the time, and she flirts back. It's just, usually, she knows she's his wife at the time.

Suddenly his vision is eclipsed, delicate hands covering his eyes. He doesn’t flinch at the soft touch, despite the way it makes his hearts hammer in his chest. The hands on him are warm and gentle, the scent of time clinging to lightly calloused fingers. “Guess who.” A velvet voice brushes against the back of his neck, and he fights the urge to shiver. Electricity pricks at his skin, making the hairs on his neck and arms stand to attention. Without a doubt, he knows who’s behind him even before he instinctively spins around, surrendering to the scrutiny of familiar green eyes.

 


	8. Never the same River twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Guess who.” A velvet voice brushes against the back of his neck, and he fights the urge to shiver. Electricity pricks at his skin, making the hairs on his neck and arms stand to attention. Without a doubt, he knows who’s behind him even before he instinctively spins around, surrendering to the scrutiny of familiar green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay kids, here's where it gets complicated.

 

 

“My life’s a tangle of the past and the present, like two separate puzzles with their pieces tumbled together.” –Emily Murdoch

* * *

 

 “River.” Her name drops heavy from his lips, benediction released in one quiet breath. She has a bag slung over one arm, a vortex manipulator strapped around her wrist, and a cotton dress clinging subtly to her form. Her long, curly hair hangs haphazardly over her shoulders and her cheeks are flushed slightly pink from heat, not yet golden from an afternoon of sunbathing. She looks just as breathtaking as she had that day,  _today_ , all those years ago. “What are you doing here?" 

“I’m gathering a few finishing touches for our picnic. Speaking of, I thought I was meeting you in Valhalla?” She looks just as surprised by his presence as he is hers. The only difference being that her eyes shine with pleasantries where he rather suspects he looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

Remembering himself, he chases the shadows away with a bright smile. “You are. Er, you did. Well not me, ME. The other one. Matchstick man.”

“Ohh, pretty boy! He's ever so fun.” She looks absolutely delighted by the small spoiler and something bittercurls the corner of his lips again.

“No need to sound so pleased.”

"He's you, dear.” She looks up at him from under thick lashes, running her palms up the lapels of his purple coat. “No need to be jealous.”

He scoffs at the mere thought, but she allows him the childish gesture, her knowing eyes leaving his in favor of the very batch of snow globes he’d been examining only a moment before.

“If you're not meeting me, why are you here? You’re not usually one for cheap keepsakes. Tawdry hats however..” She takes a step towards the hats and he takes advantage of the movement, discretely side stepping and pivoting her focus away from the window to prevent her from seeing her future self.

"I came with you."

"We're cutting it a bit close." She seems mostly unfazed by the news .It would hardly be the first time they've crossed paths with themselves. Then, an idea suddenly dawning, her demeanor flips,the grin on her face positively lecherous. “I'll bet I planned it this way. Seems a shame to waste two of me, don't you think?" 

A horde of memories and fantasies flood his thoughts; and, while delicious, that’s not what’s important right now. The Doctor pulls himself out of the distracting imagery because, yes, there  _are_  two of her and the future her could walk in any minute.

"River, I need to know if you stole something." He blurts with absolutely no tact whatsoever.

She snorts, browsing through the merchandise with feigned interest. "You'll have to be more specific, sweetie." 

He touches her arm, not enough to alarm her, but enough pressure so she knows this isn't a game. "I'm serious. This is important." He breathes, eyes locked onto hers and she straightens, giving him her full attention. Her breathing is even, quiet, a practiced calm. Everything outside of them recedes to a dull roar in the back of his mind. He knows that just beyond those doors River is flirting and dancing, immersing herself in the merriment of the festivities. He can hear the hum of the air unit, the sound of his pulse in his ears, and a faint beeping coming from his pocket. But he pays those distractions little mind, surrendering full aching awareness to the woman before him. A River who knows him, loves him, is here, with all the hope and reassurance and answers he needs. If only he knew what questions to ask.

"At some point in your future you're going to tell me to come here. I don't know why. I don't even-" he pauses, exhaling through his nose and taming his voice before he continues. "I think there's something you're supposed to tell me. Something I'm missing, something obvious and right in front of me and I'm just too blind to see it. So please. Please, River. Just... help me."

Her face falls, eyes searching his and reading him like a road map. She doesn’t comment on the way he wears old age like rugged terrain, ridges folded in the creases of his brow, paths carved in the corners of his mouth, and valleys sunken and dark around his eyes. She must see him for what he is, weary and weathered and desperate. "Sweetie, I haven't-"

"Don't." It's more of a plea than a demand, a whisper that carries more weight than she can possibly understand right now. "Don't say you don't know. You always know. So please, help me."

Her mouth is still parted, concern crinkling around her eyes as she desperately tries to save him from an enemy neither of them can see. She's ready to fight for him and he can't even give her armor or information. He's said too much already. "Is there anything you found or are thinking of finding that could be dangerous?  It'd be powerful, a weapon, probably." He confesses as much as he dares without risking writing his own future. "Anything that might make you a target or encourage people to come after you."

Her expression changes, just a flash of an emotion he can't name. Comprehension? Trepidation? Reluctance? Whatever it was, it's gone as quick as it came, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt she's found the answer he doesn't know he needs. Her brow knits, focusing on him with a look akin to pity, like he's missed something so, so obvious. But her lips purse, unwilling to be the one to point it out to him. “I haven't stolen any weapons. I don't need to." The words fall easily from her lips, a request for forgiveness before confession of sin. "Doctor," she exhales. "I  _am_ a weapon."

Epiphany douses him like ice water, cold tendrils creeping down his spine, and a chill seeping into his bones. On cue, the subtle beeping in his pocket sounds more like a fog horn, a wailing siren alerting him of danger because there's only one reason the device in his pocket would chirp back to life: they're within range. More men from the hospital are close. This isn't a trail of breadcrumbs; it's a honey trap. All of it, all along they haven't been after something she has. It's her, what she is. 

And he led her right to them.

He let them get separated. He left her alone in a crowd of thousands, where anyone could get close enough to drug her and drag her away without causing a scene. Screams wouldn't be heard over the roar of the festival, and with the right sedative she couldn't even put up a fight. His eyes snap up, finding the elder River is still out in the crowd. She's still laughing, still flirting, still  _there_ , at least for the time being. But the River next to him is wide eyed and more concerned than ever. It dawns on him how unhinged he must look and he sighs, hands cupping her cheeks and pulling her in so he doesn't have to see his own desperate reflection in her eyes. He presses his forehead to hers, willing so many things, so many thoughts and apologies and promises from his soul to hers. "River." Is all he manages, teeth clenched and body torn between what awaits him outside and the comfort of what's in his arms. 

Her hands, small and strong and sweet, wrap around his forearms, her grip as gentle as his is desperate. "What's happened, my love?"

He closes his eyes tighter. Even if he could tell her, there's no time to explain. She has a picnic to eat and a younger version of him to tease. And he has a life with her to salvage, but if he wants any hope of keeping her later, he has to let go of her now. So he puts on the mask he's learned to wear so well, slipping into a facsimile of himself as he looks at her like she's just answered his prayers. "Nothing, dear." He beams so brightly he thinks she almost believes him. "Everything's going to be just fine." 

She doesn’t understand, but that’s okay because she will. He’s going to fix all of this. One of his hands reaches for hers while the other grabs one of the snow globes that reads ' _Valhalla'_ off the shelf and presses it into her palm, closing her fingers around it.

"And you're wrong. I do like cheap keepsakes. But only when they're from you." He smiles, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. When he pulls back, she's smiling, too. Concerned and more than a little confused, but smiling. The promise of seeing it again is all he needs to sustain himself. Without another word, he sonics her vortex manipulator and she vanishes before him, dissipating like a fine mist that was never there at all.

Half a second of staring at the blank space his wife had occupied is all he allows himself before turning on a dime and sprinting out of the shop. 

The first thing that hits him is a wall of heat, the air around him muggy and heavy from the full force of the Asgardian sun. It's too bright light momentarily blinds him, obscuring his vision. But his thoughts remain unclouded: get River, get out of there before it's too late. She's right where he saw her last, chatting with a particularly tall and built specimen. The sight only encourages the Doctor's feet in their endeavor, all but barreling into River in his hasty approach. 

"River! There you are!" He interrupts, standing a little closer than necessary and not even gracing her friend with courtesy glance. "Listen, we need to go."

"Go?" She repeats, her pinched expression bordering between bewilderment and annoyance. "We only just got here." 

"Yup and we wouldn't want to out stay our welcome. Too much of a good thing and all that."

She's looking at him like he's sprouted a second head, but his bright smile remains plastered to his face like it's been carved that way.

"You can never have too much of a good thing." The man besides them chimes in and the Doctor's eyes find him for the first time. The man smiles like a cowboy and looks like a modern day Prince Charming, with a strong chin and broad shoulders. The Doctor supposes he's attractive, if one was into that ruggedly handsome sort of thing.

"That's what the makers of Jurassic Park XVI: Velociraptors on Venus thought. But there you have it. Highly inaccurate, that film, and I'm speaking from experience.”

Prince Charming barks out a laugh, missing or ignoring the Doctor's displeasure. "I take it you're a friend of River’s?" 

"Something like that." The Doctor states flatly before turning his full attention to River. "Can I speak to you in private?"

River's eyes narrow suspiciously, but she relents with a sigh, turning back to His Majesty with kind eyes. "Excuse me a moment."

The Doctor's hand finds River's lower back, and she allows him to subtly guide her back towards the ship. As they shuffle along, the Doctor glances over his shoulder to find the man is frowning as he watches them go. Most likely disappointed there won’t be a second date.

"I appreciate what you're doing but, as shocking as it seems, I don't need saving from attractive, interesting men."

"What? No, it's nothing like that. I, well, you see, I think I've left the tap on."

"The tap?" She parrots, flat and incredulous, one very skeptical brow arching in his direction.

"Yup and last time it flooded the entire cricket pitch so we've got to turn it off right away."

"And you need me for that, why?" 

"Well, it's a very rusty tap, hard to turn you see." 

"You're being ridiculous and what is that noise?" She demands, speaking over the ascending beeping sound making itself known from inside his breast pocket.

"It's just a thing in my pocket." He answers, his attempted nonchalance betrayed by the briskness of his pace as he ushers her through the crowd.

"Okay, but why is it beeping?"

"It's just a thing that goes beep. Does there have to be a reason?"

River stops abruptly, pulling away from him, confused by his sudden, inexplicable desire to be anywhere but here. "What’s gotten into you? I'm not going anywhere until you explain why you're suddenly trying to herd me out of here.” 

He lets out a huff, observing her stance, firm and stubborn with every intent of not taking another step until he explains. But he can’t, not here in this crowded place, not when she’s not safe. He chances a step toward her and when she doesn't step away, he grabs her hands in his and pulls them to his chest in a pleading gesture. "Please. Just," he exhales through his nose. “Trust me."

He has no right to ask this of her, especially now, after he's led her into a trap. How much of her life had he spent asking her to blindly trust him when he had spent so much of his only half trusting her? 

_"Now, I love a bad girl, me. But trust you, seriously?"_    


As they stare into each other's eyes, finding answers in the patterns hidden there the way a blind man reads braille, he wonders if she sees in his eyes what he saw then: an almost stranger who knows more about her than she does about herself, someone she knows in her heart she should trust but can't quite let herself.

Unlike him, she must find whatever he refused to see all those years ago because the sigh she gives makes her whole body relax. "Okay." River relents and he blinks in surprise. 

"Really?"

"Really." She repeats and he lights up from the inside out. She's so much better than him, always trust in her heart, always faith, no matter where she is in her timeline.

He just hopes, this time, he deserves it.

The Doctor gives her hands a gentle, grateful squeeze before releasing them. But he's forgotten something in his haste: Rule One. And he realizes his mistake too late because the second his grip loosens, River dives for his pocket, deft fingers plucking the device from its hiding place and spinning playfully away before he can snatch it back. And try he does, but she's quick as a viper in her endeavor, twisting away from his grasp as an image on the device flashes to life.

River's face falls the second she looks at the screen, her own pixilated, blue grey image staring back at her. "What the hell is this?"

"I’ll explain in the TARDIS. Just please-" Hearts in his throat, he takes a step forward. This time she takes a defensive step back.

"I'm not going anywhere.” If betrayal had a tune, it would sound like her voice in this moment. “You said there was nothing in this for you. This doesn't look like nothing." 

"You think that I'm-? River, no! I found that on the guard at the hospital." He rushes to explain but this really isn't the time or place. Why could she never just do what she was told? Why did she have to be stubborn and always do things on her terms?

River studies the device in hand, still wounded and suspicious. “Those men were after me?” 

The Doctor nods solemnly. "I believe so, yes."

Her eyes snap back to his, boring into him with the same scrutiny she applied to the device. "Why didn't you tell me? Why hide?"

"I... didn’t want to worry you." 

“You mean you wanted to protect me?" 

It isn't really a question and he hesitates to deny her claim just a moment too long.

"Well I don't need your protection!" River fumes. "How dare you decide what I need and don’t need to know about my own life. No one makes my decisions for me but me.”

"You're right! I'm sorry.” His hands are palm up now, surrender, repentant. They're making quite the scene, their shouting drawing the attention of a few curious passersby. River notices this too, eyes flicking from the crowd and back to him. When he speaks, his voice is low, apologetic, pleading. "Can we finish this back on the ship? Please?"

River's breathing has settled and she too has lowered her voice, but she is far from calm. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

_ Just that you're my wife and I'm a Time Lord and you were bred to destroy me but didn't because I'm actually quite a nice fellow and I only lied because it's an integral part of our marriage. At least it used to be. But I probably shouldn't mention that we're married, at least not now because you're quite cross and it might not be received well. It would also mean explaining why I can change my face, which actually brings us back to me being a Time Lord and why you almost killed me. But on the bright side you didn't and I've always kind of thought you were partial to this face. At least until today when-_

"Well?!" River barks and he shakes his head slowly.

"No, there's nothing else." The words taste like bile in his mouth, like grim resignation, and they’re harder to say than ‘spoilers’ ever was. But he says them anyway, because he has to, because he doesn’t have a choice. What they are to each other can’t be explained or forced. It has to be lived. She has to  _choose_  it. Even if it could be told, explaining one part means explaining it all. He can’t even tell her what she is or why. How would he even begin? For her own safety, he can’t even attempt to bridge the gap between them, not until he knows how and why she lost her memory in the first place. If he has any hope of fixing this, of not scaring her away, he has to lie.

“Promise me.” River’s quiet demand twists rule one around him like a noose.

He assures her anyway, putting on a brave face and trying not to choke as he says, “I promise.”

She relents, giving a curt nod before marching back towards the ship. He doesn't dare try to hold her hand this time. 

 -

Back on board, she's agreed to finish their chat in the kitchen, where he tries to get back on her good side with tea and her favorite biscuits. Unfortunately, she hasn't succumb to any of his bribery, too busy staring at the communicator even though the device became useless the moment they stepped into the TARDIS. Bold block letters once again flashing, " **OUT OF RANGE**."

Neither one of them are sitting. He's too high strung and nervous, worrying a hole in the floor between the neglected table and a spot near the sink where his tea waits. River stands as still as a statue, leaning against the counter in such a way that it looks like she's the one holding it up rather than the other way around. He tries not to look at her, focusing instead on his own untouched cup of tea. The steam has long since dissipated, but beneath the surface, the liquid still runs hot. He wonders which will cool down first: the scalding liquid or River. 

“Who is after me and why?" River’s voice finally cuts through the silence. He isn’t sure if it’s a rhetorical question or if its directed at him, but he stills in his pacing, taking it as permission to speak.

"Whoever they are, they're organized enough to get into your office and informed enough to plant something to lead us right into a trap." He shudders to think what would have happened if he didn’t have the communicator as a warning.

She finally sets said device on the counter, eyes briefly taking notice of the tea and biscuits he brought her as a peace offering before ignoring them entirely in favor of looking at him. "If they did plant that snow globe, they must have access to time travel. So, at least that narrows it down."

It’s good to finally brainstorm out loud about this, even if she is cross with him. It reminds him of the old days. "Jim mentioned the Time Agency.”

“Could be.” River considers this information, no doubt noticing yet another person knew about this before her. "Back at the hospital the nurse said the Time Agency would be interested to hear about my unauthorized time travel."

The Doctor shakes his head, unconvinced. "Yes, but why now? You did that for years and now suddenly they want to punish you because you're back from the dead? Doesn't add up." It was more likely her improbable reemergence from the Library caught their attention and gave them ideas of putting her to their own uses.

"Did Jim say anything else?"

He hesitates, mulling the words around behind his lips before letting them slip out. "He seemed to think they were after a weapon you'd acquired." Which isn't a lie. It's just less true than he thought it was 30 minutes ago. 

River nods slowly, appraising him. "And what do you think?"

He thinks she's a very dangerous woman. He thinks there are any number of reasons someone would want to find her, blackmail her, use her. But, more importantly, he _knows_  she would never let that happen again. She would give her life to preserve her time with him. But she would shatter the universe and everything in it before she let someone use her again. 

So the question becomes, if someone was after her, why hadn’t she come to him for help? When she was ejected from the library, why hadn't she contacted him? Unless, perhaps the only way to ensure she would never be used as a weapon again had been to remove him. 

Which did River Song value more, her memories or her freedom?

If by chance she had been forced to choose, had erasing him and everything that tied them together been the obvious choice? Would giving up their nights together be worthwhile if it also eased the burden of a life of brainwashing, prison, and heartache? Did she forget him in favor of normality?

He thinks about her office, untouched and unaffected by his presence. He thinks about her students and coworkers and how her life carried on just fine without him. He thinks about her face when she first saw him in the hospital, eyes friendly and open, a glimpse of what she could have been had she not been weighed down by a life with him, by obligations and regrets. He thinks about the men that attacked them, remembering how she shot and missed. River is a blank slate now, no conditioning, no bad memories, and no Doctor. She isn’t technically a weapon anymore. But did that mean she couldn’t still be used as one?

"I don't know." He admits with a heavy sigh.

"Well I haven't stolen anything. Not that I remember." 

And that's just it, if she's not that woman anymore, why are they after her? If she erased her own memories as a form of protection, it's possible they are traveling back in time to get what they want from a younger version of her that remembers. But if that were true, why leave a trail for them to follow? Why set a trap for them now? His head aches from all the possibilities racing through his mind. They pulse inside his skull and settle just behind his eyes. It could be any of his theories, a strange concoction of all, or none of them. Some abstract answer they've yet to discover. 

Another long silence stretches between them, the air filled only with slow exhales and unanswered questions.

“Do you think," River starts, but pauses, worrying her bottom lip before looking up to meet his eyes. "Could they be the ones who have my diary?”

“No, if someone was messing about with that we would have seen the results by now."

"You mean, if they changed things?"

"Yes, exac-“ the word cracks against a suddenly dry throat and he swallows hard. "Exactly."  They have her diary. That explains everything. How they knew about Asgard. How they knew exactly what to plant in her office to lure them to there. Why all he could find were little notes but never a face. Whoever it was didn’t want the Doctor and River together, they want them to get caught.

“They're using your diary to travel along your timeline. Your memory loss isn’t the result of a block or an injury, that’s why Casia had never seen anything like it. There’s nothing to see, just an absence. The memories simply aren’t there. They've been erased, rewritten _._ ” Someone is changing her past, probably in order to shape her into a different kind of weapon. As morbid as it is, he feels relieved. Someone forcibly rewriting her is a theory he finds much more agreeable than her purposefully forgetting him.

“Wait. Why bother setting a trap for me if they're already rewriting me?”

“If they really are time travelers, we can’t think linearly. Maybe from their perspective, they hadn't rewritten you yet when they set the trap. But this explains everything: your parents, your childhood, prison. They've all been edited out. You haven't forgotten me. You've been rewritten so we never met.”  He tries to keep the excitement out of his voice, but it’s hard when all he hears are victory bells at the possibility she didn’t choose to forget him. Of course she didn’t, not him, not his River. He’s never wanted to kiss her more. For a fraction of a fraction of a second, he considers it, but River’s less than enthused expression brings him back down from his high, reminding him that her life has still, in fact, been stolen. Again.

"But we still don't know why. And if they're rewriting time, how can you still remember me?"

“I'm not sure. It could be because you're the epicenter. It's all changing around you and working its way out. It just hasn't gotten to me yet." He really should have felt the ripples of cause and effect if someone was tampering with time, their time, precious time. In order to pull this off without alerting him, they'd have to be geniuses, systematically unweaving half the known universe, or possibly just insanely lucky idiots. Either way, if they were rewriting time to keep them apart, why bother leaving clues for him to find her at all? And if River never met him, where did the diary they're using to track her down even come from? Why were there still pictures of him in her house? Why did she still go to prison?

River doesn’t seem bothered by these trivialities, hurriedly typing away at her manipulator. “What are you typing?” He asks.

"I’m looking through my recent history.” She answers without looking up.

Why would she be looking at places she’s visited with her vortex manipulator? Unless… “You want to retrace your steps.”

River hums, glad to see he’s finally caught on. The Doctor’s already shaking his head disapprovingly, even before she elaborates. “If they’re using my diary, going to places I’ve been and setting traps to find me, maybe I can get to them first and figure out what they want.”

"It doesn't work like that, River. You can’t just blatantly cross your own timeline. Especially if you can’t even  _remember_  most of those places or why you went there. You could run into yourself."

"Possibly. And I’m sure that version of me will also have a few things to say to the people who thought they could take liberties with my memory. Plus, if the timeline holds, I won’t even remember that conversation anyway, so no harm done.”

He all but scoffs in disbelief, “And if it doesn’t?”

“Look,” River gives a deliberate huff, giving her full attention to the Doctor. “I appreciate your concern, but you still remember me. That means the past is still in flux. I can stop this before it starts. Poison the well."

He’s pacing again. What she’s proposing is impossible and insane and, honestly, a part of him wishes he’d come up with it first.  "This is a stupidly dangerous plan, you realize."

"It's a plan in progress." She smirks, throwing his own words back at him. Then impassively, she adds, "I’m doing this with or without your help.”

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. In no reality is he letting her do something this reckless on her own. Story of their lives, really. "Alright, but under no circumstances can you interact with your past self."

At the thought, she grins wickedly, the curl of her lips a mirror of the one her younger self teased him with only an hour before. "Spoilsport."

Once again, he somehow resists distraction, adopting a stern voice as he says, "I'm serious. The paradoxes could be catastrophic."

For a brief moment they simply stare at one another. In the end, River is the one to surrender, exhaling, "Fine. I'll do my best to behave."

A smirk softens his features, words slipping out in a familiar caress. "Good, otherwise I'd have to spank you." 

Her brow arches at him in surprise, but as his playful smirk grows, so does hers. "Promises, promises." She quips and a thrill creeps across his skin. He suspects it has everything to do with River and almost nothing to do with what they're about to do. They’re only going to be repeatedly crossing their own time stream, risking potentially rewriting both their lives and tearing a hole in the universe. 

What could possibly go wrong?


	9. We Had A Promise Made. We Were In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically just angsty fluff. Also, I’m going on vacation in a few days so it might be a few weeks before the next chapter. Don’t hate me.
> 
> Chapter title from Jose Gonzalez, Heartbeats

 “There was a skyness to the sky and a nowness to the world that he had never seen or felt or realized before." - Neil Gaiman, Stardust

* * *

It’s the planet of the chip shops, but this far off the coast it looks more like oblivion, empty and black and infinite. This part of the planet is void of life, just a vast sea with one lone tree protruding from the still liquid, straining towards a sky that can’t be reached. But this place hasn’t always been untouched by civilization. Long ago a small barge did business here, harvesting rare white blossoms from the ancient tree and using the pollen to make sweetener. However, it has long since been abandoned. Now the flowers bloom freely, white petals adorning the tree like glowing Christmas lights. The only evidence man left of their presence here is the rusty maintenance lift that leans precariously against the great tree.

_It’s rusty from disuse, creaking like the hinges on a cemetery gate. River looks dubious as he pulls back the door and gestures for her to go inside. “There is no way I’m going in there. This heap of metal looks older than you.”_

_The Doctor’s face scrunches in offense. “I don’t look old! And it’s perfectly safe. See.” In an attempt to prove the lift’s structural integrity and that he is, in fact, an eternal child, the Doctor begins bouncing up and down, stopping after only minimal protests from the ancient machinery._

_River still isn’t convinced. “Get out of there before you plummet to a death I can’t bring you back from.”_

_“It’s not like you to let a little bit of danger get in the way of a good time.”_

_“There’s a difference between a bit dangerous and completely idiotic.”_

_He huffs, hands on his hips. Then his eyes focus with intent, looking right at her as he takes slow, deliberate steps forward, closing the space between them. River stiffens instantly, watching with suspicion as that lithe body of his stalks toward her._

_“You really don’t want to?” He asks, crowding her space, eyes searing into hers. His hands find her upper arms, tracing patterns over her smooth skin. He’s so close his breath tickles her cheeks, the sound of his voice a husky caress.  “And there’s nothing I can say?” He presses a chaste kisses to her neck, one pulse point then the other. “Nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?”_

_She shivers at the contact and he grins into her throat, dancing his fingers over her shoulders and back. “You’re welcome to try and persuade me.” River baits him, breathless and brazen._

_“Oh?” His lips follow the path of her collarbone, kissing his way to the hollow of her throat. “How would I do that?”_

_“Use your imagination.” River instructs with husky breath as she leans into his touch._

_“One idea does come to mind.” The tone of his voice is nothing but promise as his hands begin their descent downward, mapping her sides and grabbing her hips. Without warning, he scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder. River squeaks in surprise, wiggling her only means of an escape attempt as he walks them into the lift and presses the button for the top._

_“Put me down right now, Doctor.” She protests. “I mean it or I’ll-“_

_“Sorry dear, did you say something? I can’t really hear you over how creaky this lift is.”_

_She threatens him in at least a dozen dead languages, including his own. The Doctor remains unfazed and more than a little pleased with himself, holding her prisoner the entire way and only releasing her once they’ve reached the top._

_River is less than amused, huffing as she straightens out her unruly hair. “You’re going to pay for that.”_

_“I thought I might. But can I just say one thing first?” Before she answers, he presses his lips to hers.  River’s hands fly to his chest with intent to push him away. But when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her body flush against his, she sighs into his mouth, hands fisting in his lapels and tugging him closer. She tastes like chips_ _and_ _smells like honey suckles, sea air, and prison soap. When they part, he brushes his nose against hers. “I told you it was safe.”_

 

The TARDIS has parked herself just above the water. River and the Doctor sit atop the blue ship, their legs dangling off the sides. They’re floating some distance away from the gigantic tree, but in his mind, he can still hear the bark scuffing against the soles of his shoes, still smell the sweetness of the blossoms, still feel the warmth of her skin as she burrows into his neck.

Beside him, River shivers slightly, arms folding around her middle. Without hesitation, he sheds his coat and drapes it over her shoulders. She thanks him wordlessly, offering a grateful smile and pulling the coat tighter around herself. A soft hum escapes her as its warmth envelops her and the sound radiates through him as if he were the one being sheltered from the cool night air.

The communicator rests safely back in the top pocket, ready and waiting to beep should it’s owners return to close proximity. He also took the liberty of scanning for life signs with his sonic. Thus far, there are only four. His and hers. Then and now.

There isn’t much room on top of the TARDIS and their knees brush together every time one of them shifts. Even though he relishes in the indirect contact, he tries his best not to move. The scratch of his suit against the wood and the subtle sloshing of the waves sound obtrusive to the quiet they’ve found here in this secret place.

They’re sitting too close for him to chance staring at her face without being obvious, but in the low light he can steal glances at her lap and feet while they wait for the stars to start their spectacle. Her jodhpurs are tight and worn in. Thin patches have formed over both knees and a run in the fabric mars her left calf. He traces the tear with his eyes, following as it curves over muscles and disappears to where it’s tucked into her combat boots. His own dark trousers have seen better days, dawning their share of scuffs and frayed edges. They’ve become slightly bunched in this seated position and his socks peek out between the cuff of his pants and his shiny leather shoes.

Beneath them, the water is calm and placid, a black pool of glass reflecting an even blacker sky. Even the ripples from their landing have stilled. There is no lapping of waves or chatter of tourists or chirping of animals. There is only night and darkness and silence. But it isn’t lonely, far from it. It may be the most at peace he's felt since the last time he gazed up at this night sky.

Maybe it’s the vast possibilities that soothe him or the steady beat of his hearts. Or maybe it’s because this feels more like how they used to be, just them, alone in the darkness, the only obstacle between them the bulb burning proudly on top of the TARDIS. It’s not very bright, just enough to outline their forms, but amid the darkness it probably looks like a spotlight. He wonders if he could have seen it from atop that tree. If he had looked just so, between the branches and blossoms, would he have seen the dull glowing orb in the distance? Would he have known it was a slapdash attempt to recreate one of the best nights of his life?

"I know what you're doing." River breathes softly, but in the quiet darkness her voice sizzles like a hot brand.

He feels his body tense, trying not to sound terrified as he asks, “You do?”

"You're playing it safe. But it won't work. Nothing worth finding ever comes easy." In the dim light he can’t tell exactly where she’s looking, but he can picture her face by the tone of her voice, all knowing and triumphant, the victor of a game between them he wasn’t aware they were playing.

She isn’t wrong.  It’s the quiet places he suggested scoping out first, places they wouldn’t be spotted or recognized, where he could account for the exact location of their past selves and make sure it was impossible to run into them. He could just admit it, that would certainly be the simpler option. So naturally he takes the opposite approach.

“Not at all. This is a stake out, a rather genius one if I say so.  Very few life signs to keep track of and if that number changes we’ll know. Plus, out in the open like this, there’s nowhere for the people after you to hide should they decide to drop in unannounced. “

“You realize, by proxy, that means we also have nowhere to hide should any uninvited guests start shooting at us.”

He waves a hand, batting the idea right out of the air. ‘We’ve never been safer. Nothing can get through these doors.” He emphasizes his point by knocking on the ship. “Trusty old girl.”

“Ah yes, the impenetrable power of wood.” River teases. Her eyes find the outline of the ancient tree, the only thing vaguely visible in the darkness. “What was I doing here anyway? Doesn’t seem like much in the ways of archaeology.”

He sidesteps her question with his own. “Speaking of, I’ve always wondered, why did you choose archeology?”

River returns the favor, turning to face him with raised eyebrows. "Why did you become a doctor?"

"I wanted to help people, I suppose."  He answers honestly, keeping his eyes on her, patiently waiting to hear the gospel of River’s life choices.

She holds his eye contact as she debates some inner quandary, finally answering, "I was looking for something."

"Did you find it?"

"No.” She says with a shake of her head, looking away. “But I think it's for the better."

Her profile is illuminated in the low light, sharp and smooth, sumptuous and strong. He can’t bring himself to look away. "Why do you say that?"

One shoulder shrugs, jostling her hair. "What comes next, if you find everything you're looking for?"

"Isn't it obvious?” He asks playfully, and when she turns to him curiously, he answers. “You live happily ever after."

River laughs, dry and hollow. "I think we're both a little old for fairytales. And you never answered my question. What was I doing here?”

_The ancient branches are wide enough to waltz on but they sit instead, him cross legged and her head resting in his lap, hair pooling over his thighs. She watches the night sky dance above them and he watches her, the light show reflected in her eyes. On a whim, he plucks one of the blossoms and tucks it behind her ear. River smiles up at him, green eyes full of love and starlight._

_"It suites you.” He tells her, and her brow crinkles in that way he finds adorable._

_"What does, the flower?”_

_The Doctor shakes his head, fringe flopping in his eyes and grinning like the cat who at the canary. “Married life.”_

_River scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I would hardly call that a wedding."_

_He chuckles at the notion that a fracture in the fabric of reality stretching across all of space and time isn't grand enough for River Song. He’d even asked her parent’s permission. "And here I thought you weren't a wedding person."_

_She shrugs. "A girl can change."_

_He examines the stubborn creature in his lap, wild hair and smirking lips, prison sweats and combat boots, fighting for what she wants and never settling for anything less. It would be a sin to alter such perfection. Leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead, he whispers, "Please don't."_

 

“You're on your honeymoon.” He tells her, his eyes flicking to the tree. River follows his gaze, no doubt picturing a honeymoon with a different man, a man in a brown suit, the face of his former self. Mind, it’s not that much of a stretch. Even without regenerating, he feels different from the man she married. This face has come a long way since fish fingers and custard. He doubts little Amelia would even recognize her raggedy Doctor now, with his pushed back hair and purple suit. All that older on the inside leaking out in the form of dark eyes and creases in his brow.

The first stars of the night are beginning to peek through the night sky, little pinpoints of light in a blanket of black.  “Look there.” The Doctor gestures to the east. “That’s Primum, the first Quark star to ever be discovered. And that one there, just south, is a Red Giant in mid supernova. You can tell by the blurry disk of light expanding out around it. Oh! And that orangey cluster is the Nestle Nebula.”

“Nestle? Like the company?”

“Oh yes. See, those are Y Dwarf stars. Really rare, they only burn at around 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Nestle bought them in 3309, opened up a satellite café, and, voila, cookies baked by starlight.”

River shakes her head in playful disbelief. “You’re lying.”

“Am not!” The Doctor protests through a laugh. “They have the best chocolate chip cookies in the galaxy. I’ll take you there after this and prove it to you.”

“A night under the stars _and_ dessert? Careful, a girl could get the wrong idea.”

“Or the right one.” His lips blurt before his brain can stop him. He can’t be certain, but from the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees her blush. Then again, maybe it’s just the starlight, growing steadily brighter as one by one the sky explodes. The magic of it is unlike anything else in the universe, starlight reflecting off the sea like a mirror, surrounding them with infinite, dazzling lights.

He missed it last time, too caught up in kissing her and watching as she marveled at the sight before them. It’s much harder to miss now, the sky a backdrop, silhouetting the soft curve of her shoulders and peeking through her thick mass of curls. She looks up at the night sky the same way she had before, in wonder and awe. Except her smile isn’t the same. It doesn’t bloom across her face, lighting her up from within as stars shine just for her. It’s smaller now, barely curling her cheeks, a secret. The starlight doesn’t seek her out in waves the way it had before. It comes in kisses, sparkling the apples of her cheeks. It streaks across her arms, chest, neck, delighting her golden skin. Her reflection is even more breathtaking. Silver swirls over her and around her like brush strokes on an impressionist painting, blurring the edges where she ends and infinity begins.

“So what about you, then,” River nudges his shoulder with her own. “Do you have anyone?”

His smile slips. "There have been a few contenders over the years. One in particular."

"I knew it. Go on, tell me about her."

He lets out a long exhale through his nose, looking deliberately away from her reflection and into the night sky. River’s gaze pierces into him like a dagger and he struggles to hide the sadness that lingers just behind his eyes, weighing down the corner of his smile. Under her scrutiny, it’s harder to maintain the façade of happiness he usually wears like a second skin, the one that blurs his true emotions, always leaving them just out of focus.  "It's complicated."

River chuckles, but not at his expense. "Isn't it always?"

A million practiced diversions and ways to change the subject gather at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back. Rather than sifting through for the right words, he lets raw emotion flow unrestrained, free of flowery poetry. "She was… is everything: funny, brilliant, stunning, and far too good for me. She’s fierce and determined and,” he huffs a quiet laugh. ”Dangerous. But patient, too, and kind. Certainly braver than she has any right to be. And together we were…” Words fail him. He isn’t sure there are words to describe a union such as theirs. “And without her…” There are words for this. Grievous, self-pitying words like lost, lonely, and hollow. Words he can’t bare feeling much less saying. Instead, he sighs, settling for an equally true sentiment. “She makes everything better when she’s around. She makes _me_ better.”

"What was the problem?" River asks softly.

The Doctor still can’t bring himself to look at her, studying the scuff marks on his shoes as he answers, "Never could get the timing quite right."

River gives an understanding, noncommittal nod before finally tearing her eyes away from him. Together they look up into the sky, observing all the stars that will one day go out. Some of them are new and freshly formed, still burning brightly. Others have long since extinguished, their lingering light refusing to fade, echoing through the cosmos out of pure defiance. But one day, even the brightest and most stubborn stars will fizzle out. It's funny how easy it is to blow out a candle. And yet, it takes precision and friction and all the right elements in all the right places with all the right conditions to restart a fire.

"Did you love her?" Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid sound waves will somehow shatter the empty air around them.

"Still do.” He answers, matching her meek question with unwavering confidence. Nothing lasts forever. But love, love is special. It can’t be stabbed or pummeled or drown. It can’t get sick or lost or forgotten. Love doesn't die of natural causes; it dies because of us. It doesn't explode from the passion of anger or succumb to longing or sadness. It is extinguished by indifference. All the little moments that pass us by, the _almost_ s and _should have_ s. The _thank_ _you_ s and _miss you_ s and _love you_ s that we just forget to say. It dies slowly. It festers and creeps into your heart like a virus, unseen and unaware until your eyes begin to water and your nose starts to run. By the time it's visible, it's already too late. “Never really told her how much, though. Things always got in the way."

River hums in understanding. "Things do that."

Sometimes it feels like the whole universe is working against them, their paths forever revolving and crossing and twisting but never quite in sync. They existed in a realm of ‘almost’. Almost the same species. Almost the right time or place. Almost the truth and almost finding the right words to say. They almost had it all and now he almost has her back. He thinks perhaps ‘almost’ is the worst affliction there is. It hollows out its victims, leaving just enough hope to eat them from within.

For a while he ran from the almosts. He ran because it was a habit or because he was scared of the future, of being happy. He ran because it’s the only thing he knew how to do. A long life had taught him that happiness is fleeting and fickle and not for him, who had hurt so many and caused so much death. But he couldn't run from her, thrown together by chance and weaved like one by fate. Running from her only ever drew him closer and in the end he found himself chasing after her, clinging to any scrap he could.

He never thanked her for teaching him how to be still, for making him feel not alone. He told her by taking her on dates and showing her the universe and wasting away hours just lying next to her. She felt his love and gratitude every time their minds brushed and bodies joined. But he never told her with words, with spoken language and lips, his affection swirling in the air between their bodies, audible with every breath and syllable. He hid from his feelings, from love. But not River. She didn’t see it as a weakness or something that made her vulnerable. It made her strong, never frightened or ashamed.

“Do you think you’ll see her again?”

“Yes, I believe I will.” And he does believe it. He believes it and hopes it and longs for it with all his soul.

River nods, her smile warm but exhausted, like the light of a faraway star. The brightness of it chases away the darkness of his thoughts.

“And I’ll tell her.” He promises the silhouette. “I’ll tell her everything I should have said from the start.”

River considers him a moment before shrugging and looking off into the distance, her expression unreadable. “If she’s everything you say she is, I’m sure she already knows.”

-

The night carried on without interruption. The stars shone and sparkled and both versions of them, past and present, watched the spectacle without interruption. And when the two other life signs on his tracker disappeared on cue, undisturbed, the Doctor made good on his promise to treat her to the best cookies in the galaxy. They arrive at the starlight café with the intention of discussing the who’s and whys and how’s of what was happening to her time line. Instead, they stay for hours, talking, drinking coffee, and eating biscuits, cookies, and little cakes. Her favorite are the sugar cookies but she can't stand the sight of apple cinnamon because it smells a bit too much like a spiced liquor she over indulged on at a staff Christmas party. His favorite are the chocolate bacon cupcakes, and at one point River licked frosting off one and he nearly spilt a steaming cup of coffee down his front. She merely teased him, saying _I think you’d look rather good in a pair of hot pants_ and he responded by rambling awkwardly about _why are they called a ‘pair’ of pants anyway?_

Eventually they found their way back to the TARDIS, where she now sleeps, but not in their bedroom. Even he couldn't bear to be in there tonight, not with her on board, sleeping soundly somewhere not next to him.  He misses sleeping with her, not in the passionate throws of love and lust way, but actually sleeping, warm and safe and loved in her arms. He misses talking over pillows and fading in and out of dreams, the only sound the slow beating of their hearts and shallow, sweet breathes. They were together, not to take away the pain, but to share it, so neither of them would be alone.

When she was away, he used to sleep on her side of the pillow just to be near her, to smell her. Eventually, even the essence of her was gone, echoes used up along with everything else. Missing her didn't come all of a sudden. It didn't consume him one lonely night while he lied in bed. It crept up on him like a thief. It dropped into his life like a subtle rain. One day it was grey skies and he could still see peaks of sun, but the rain clouds of her absence stole away his light so subtly he almost didn’t notice when it began storming so hard it blocked out the sun. One minute he was making toast for two and the next the smell of burning bread made him nauseous. It was smiling to himself but never speaking aloud because it was a joke only she would understand. It was becoming accustomed to loneliness, a slowly setting silence falling on him so quietly any noise made him skittish. 

She's right down the hall now, and in retribution for all those nights he feels compelled to go to her. He doesn’t, of course. He sits with his legs dangling out of the TARDIS. He does this from time to time, when he needs to think, when he doesn’t want to think at all, when he wants to stare into oblivion and forget. Sometimes he even does it to _remember the outline of her figure, sitting alone in the doorway of the TARDIS, torso, shoulders, and hair a black silhouette against the Earthlight, a goddess, a quiet protector._

_It’s her first overnight stay in the TARDIS. He nearly choked on his own tongue when she let that slip, thinking nothing of something so trivial. But to him, to him it is a grim reminder that his days are fading fast. One more first. One more last._

_She doesn’t even see him as he strolls into the console room, too lost in her own thoughts, head too full of ghosts and monsters to notice the squeaking of his rubber shoes against the tile floor. He doesn’t need to ask what she’s doing out here, why she can’t sleep. He’s held her through enough nights to know about the demons that plague her dreams. But she’s too young for that now, too new, not yet ready for his affections._

_He clears his throat so he doesn’t alarm her. “Penny for your thoughts?”_

_It startles her anyway, whipping around with wide, surprised eyes. When she sees that it’s him, she frowns before looking back out as they orbit the Earth. “I was trying to get back to my dorm on Luna, but this is as close as she would take me.”_

_“I told you I don’t fly her wrong.” The Doctor dares to skip a little closer. “She’s just picky.”_

_River snorts. “Except when you leave the breaks on.”_

_“Yes, well.” He says, leaning casually against the doorframe beside her. “I like the noise.”_

_“So you’ve said.” She deadpans, and he gets the distinct impression she’d rather he just left her be. Naturally, he doesn’t._

_“Why were you trying to get back to Luna?” He asks, instead._

_River shakes her head, frustrated. “You don’t have to do this.”_

_“Do what?”_

_“This!” She gestures between them. “Comforting me, acting like you care.  Just stop it. I’m not an idiot.”_

_“Well I am.” He chimes, taking a seat next to her in the doorway. “Or so you tell me. So I’d be eternally grateful if you could explain what I’ve done to upset you.”_

_She allows him to sit beside her, but her body language is closed off, bristling.  “I appreciate what you’re doing by taking me on these little field trips. You feel guilty about what happened in Berlin. You think you manipulated me into bringing you back, but you didn’t. Regardless of what you told me, it was my choice. So you can drop the charade.”_

_He sits, stunned. What would make her think such a thing? He thought he’d been perfectly clear that she was important to him. “River, what are you talking about? What charade?”_

_She sighs, “My room.”_

_“Your room?”_

_“Yes. Nothing in it is mine and if I spent any significant amount of time here in the future, there would be. So we obviously don’t know each other as well as I assumed. Which is fine. Spare me your pity because I’d rather spend my time where I’m wanted.”_

_He really is an idiot for thinking she wouldn’t notice the room wasn’t hers. Even more so for not realizing she would get the wrong idea. Of course she would expect the worst. She doesn’t trust him yet. She trusted her parent’s judgment enough to save him, but she doesn’t trust him. She has no reason to. He hasn’t proven he was worth saving yet._

_“You’re right. You don’t have a room.” He admits softly. “ **We** have a room.”_

_River looks over at him with raised eyebrows._

_“I didn’t think you were ready to know so I made one up. I’m sorry I should have known you’d see right through me. You always do.”_

_As if to prove his statement, she drags those sharp green eyes over him, appraising him from the flop of his fringe to the tips of his toes. “You’re not exactly my type.”_

_He gives a good natured laugh. Neither of them ever liked what they were supposed to. “And what is?”_

_River shrugs. “Muscles. Eyebrows. Having hit puberty.”_

_“You’ve got me on the eyebrows.” He concedes, leaning in conspiratorially. “But I’m stronger than I look and I’ve most definitely hit puberty.”_

_Where an older River would flash him a knowing, naughty smirk and say something that made his whole body flush, this time, she doesn’t even crack a smile, changing the subject as easily as turning a page. “Why not just tell me about the room? What does it matter if it’s going to happen no matter what?”_

_The Doctor shakes his head as he tries to explain. “It doesn’t work like that.” He hates being the older one. He's no good at knowing when the time is right or what to say. River had made it look so easy, he always assumed when the time was right, he’d just know what to say. Instead, he finds himself tripping at every hurdle, struggling to find words that usually flow freely. “The future isn’t set in stone, not all of it. It’s in flux all around us, constantly shaped by the words we say and decisions we make. You don’t have to have any of it.” He pauses, exhaling as he adds, “Time can be rewritten.”_

_Even as he speaks, time pulses all around them, fragile, moldable putty just waiting to be ripped apart or shaped into something beautiful. There’s so much history between them, and yet, from her perspective, hardly any at all. “Your life is what you make it, River. You always have a choice. I need you to know that.” The air sits heavy in his lungs, the very oxygen around them weighed down by the power of their conversation._

_“So my diary,” River says, pulling said blue book from some hidden place on her person. He doesn’t know where she keeps these things; he stopped asking years ago. “You’ve seen it in the future, yes?”_

_He nods, the inflection of her voice making an uneasy feeling swirl in his belly. River stares intensely down at the bound leather, the blue still vibrant, spine stiff and unused. Her fingers close around it and he watches helplessly as she extends her arm, holding the book out into nothingness. “What if I drop it now?” She asks, voice as impassive as the Earth beneath them, spinning madly on, untouched and blissfully unaware that his fate dangles by a thread. “Would all those memories go away? If I choose differently, would everything in your journal just disappear?”_

_“Yes.” The Doctor swallows against the dry lump in his throat, trying to keep his voice flat. “I suppose it would.”_

_“Would you?” She’s slightly breathless this time, like she’s afraid he might dematerialize just at the thought._

_“Possibly.” He clutches the floor until his knuckles turn white. The need to touch her is overwhelming.  Without her skin on his, he fears he might float away, but his grip on the TARDIS ties him to the present even as her delicate hand holds her future, his past, in limbo._

_An impossible silence falls over them. He forgets how to move and breathe, his pulse pounding in his ears as he watches her hand like it’s the last thing he’ll ever see. Maybe it is, maybe this is how she kills him. Maybe his hearts explode in his chest from suspense. Maybe she takes his life without ever laying a finger on him._

_After a few painstaking moments, she retracts her arm, the book sitting safely on her thighs once more. His whole body relaxes, breath expelled from his chest like a sickness, a terrible weight lifted. “Why did you choose it?” She asks. “Surely you could have just avoided me.”_

_A fond smile finds his lips. ”Oh, believe me, I tried. But you’re just too hard to resist.” His fingers flex towards her of their own volition, tentatively brushing a stray curl behind her ear. She can’t quite bring her eyes to meet his, and sensing her hesitation, he withdraws his hand. Too young, he chides himself._

_“Is that why you didn’t return me to my parents as a child?” It isn’t really a question. It’s accusation._

_He tries not to let the guilt show on his face as he answers, “That decision has never been mine to make.”_

_River scoffs. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”_

_He shrugs like it isn’t the most important question he’ll ever answer, like he isn’t thinking of the day he met her and lost her. “Since you made me promise not to. You chose it, not for me, not for the Silence or anyone else. You chose it for you. Because you are River Song and nothing and no one makes decisions for you.”_

_Her eyes are fixed on the blue sphere turning beneath them, imagining this woman he speaks of, who shares her face but isn’t quite her, this almost tangible creature made up of ‘one day’s and ‘someday’s and ‘could be’s and ‘should be’s._

_“There were a million ways and a million times you could have asked me to change something or changed it yourself. But you never did. Even if I wanted to change things, I couldn’t. You never told me where to find you.”_

_“I could tell you now.” River offers casually, like she’s making dinner plans rather than deciding the very fate of both their lives._

_“Alright then.” He breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you want.”_

_She finally turns to him, emerald eyes shining with disbelief. “And you would do that, change everything, just because I asked?”_

_“I would do anything if you asked me to.” Words from his lips have never been more earnest and he wills her to understand that with his eyes, to understand that he is at her mercy. Her whims and smiles his lifeline. Her happiness the only thing worth living for and without her, he would be lost._

_An emotion he can’t quite place tugs at the corner of her lips, and she’s never looked more like his River than when she says, “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a girl like me.”_

_He grins at her, unabashed. “It’s dangerous to ask favors from a man like me.”_

_River chuckles, leaning back on her hands and tilting her chin up, exposing her throat. “We’re perfect for each other in that respect.” She purrs. “We could destroy the universe together.”_

_“True, or we could save it.” His fingers inch toward hers, brushing her knuckles with his, a question, an invitation._

_She looks down at their hands, almost entwined, flirting with what path to take. “Is it worth it?”_

_“Every second.” He promises. “Always and completely.” And then she takes his hand in hers and chooses._

 

When they used to stare out the TARDIS doors into blackness, everything looked so vast, so full of possibilities. But without her next to him to share in the splendor, it just looks empty. After a few hours of waiting, he gives up hope that she’ll materialize beside him, that she’ll just _know_ that he needs her.

And need her he does, more than he should, more than he ever wanted or intended to. He needs her when he's angry or frustrated or lost. He needs her smile and her laugh and the way she crooks her brow. He needs her in order to sleep, to eat, and to fly his ship. She's in the very air that he breathes, his morning routines and nightly adventures. When had she become so vital, fuel for his very existence, rooted so deeply in his soul he doesn't think he'll ever be rid of her? Had he dozens of regenerations ahead of him, had he faces upon faces and endless bright blinding light to purge and reshape him, he thinks she'd nest within him still, clinging comfortably somewhere between the translucent fibers of his soul and the thumping of his heart beats.

With a sigh, he stands, stretching his young old bones, and makes his way through the depths of the ship, back to his room. His ship whines, a sympathetic, melancholy sound. The Old Girl missed her, too. He forgets sometimes, that there's more to the universe than his own self-pity. Pity when he ran from her, pity when he lost her, pity when he didn't have the strength to go back and say goodbye. Now more pity that she's back and yet she isn't. The TARDIS feels the loss as acutely as he must. To have her child walk through her halls, touch her walls, and breathe the air she provides, only to not know or remember... It must be unbearable for her, too. His ship did mourn River’s loss, there’s proof of it in the Gallifreyan scribbled across the console like the messages River so loved to leave scattered throughout history for him.

How long would he have let her remain trapped in that mainframe if fate hadn't stepped in?  If he hadn't gotten that note, how long would she have sat in that hospital bed, waiting on a husband that wasn’t coming? And even then he almost didn't investigate, not wanting to get his hopes up even when the evidence had been delivered right to him. Sure, he told himself it was impossible to change her fate, that River was gone and there was nothing to be done. But he had never really tried. If he tried and failed that meant she was really, truly beyond saving. As long as he ran from it, he could hold out hope that he'd find some way to rescue her one day in the future. Or better, that she'd find a way to rescue herself. She'd never been one to wait on him before, never needed him to save her. He’d always been the one who needed the saving. Berlin. The pyramid. The Library. He's been asking for her help since the day she met him, and she gave it until her last breath.

He was a coward and he didn't deserve someone like her, someone brave and trusting. His cowardice had cost him the very thing he wanted to save: her. Because he had lost her, hadn't he? Sure, she was out of the Library, she was running with him, but she wasn't his. Half her life was gone. The very memories she died for, lost, stolen, possibly gone forever because he failed to protect her. She suffered again and again, always because of him. 

The ship wheezes again and he runs his hand over the cool metal walls, soothing her. The lights dim and then brighten, grabbing his attention, and he blinks, finally realizing he should have reached his room by now. He doesn’t know where he is actually. He isn’t anywhere near the pool or the wardrobe, but he has passed this corridor three times already. There’s a door on the corner he doesn’t recognize, and come to think of it, he doesn’t even know where it leads and-

The ship hums again and, oh, the Old Girls been leading him circles. He knows what she’s trying to do, what she’s always done. She’s leading him on the path to _her_. But it’s no use. River doesn’t want him. He doesn’t have the right.

The ship groans again, louder, lights flickering encouragingly. The Doctor’s hands scrub at his face. He doesn’t want to argue; he wants to sleep, to close his eyes and curl around a pillow and make believe it’s her. Which is a bit sad considering the object of his desire is just beyond this door. But he lacks the courage to knock. She’s probably sound asleep, anyway. She probably wouldn’t even hear him. He wouldn’t know what to say if she did.

 “You realize I can see your shadow pacing under the door frame.” River’s voice floats through the air, muffled by the thick door, and he freezes instantly. The ship sounds overtly smug in the back of his brain when he notices his shadow darkening the doorway. The Doctor watches as, without his permission, his hand reaches for the handle, twisting it and pushing inside. Light from the hallway spills into the room, a single strip of pale, glowing yellow piercing the darkness.

River sits up, amused. “I didn’t say come in. Though, at least you waited until I was awake this time. That's an improvement.”

He flushes, realizing this is the second time he's barged into her room unannounced. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” She breathes, firm but quiet. The admission roots him to the spot, feet like lead weights. He simply stands there, unable to move or breathe as he takes in her appearance. The blankets pool around her waist and an emerald night shirt hangs loosely around her frame. Her hair is a mess from tossing and turning and the dark circles under her eyes are all too familiar. She hasn’t been sleeping; he can tell by the focus with which she observes him, curious and expectant.

Finally remembering himself, he clears his throat and asks, “Do you need anything? A blanket? It’s rather cold in here, isn’t it?” River silently studies him as he shuffles into the room, fussing through a linen closet until he finds a decent sized quilt.

“Thank you.” She says, still watching him as he spreads the cover out over her bed.  

“Anytime.” He breathes with a smile, not yet moving from where he hovers at the foot of her bed. River remains still, simply looking up at him, saying nothing. “I suppose I should...” He gestures toward the door awkwardly, taking a few steps back before spinning and bolting for the exit.

He almost reaches the handle when River speaks up, “Wait.” He pauses, turning to see she’s pulled her lip between her teeth, thinking. "You could stay, if you want."

The Doctor’s mouth bobs open and closed like fish, working overtime to form words his brain can’t find.

He must look as frightened as he feels because, in a deceptively innocent voice, she adds,"I don't bite."

She does, actually, and he can't help the breathless laugh that sneaks out from between his lips at the thought. When he peaks up at her through his messy fringe, he sees her head is tilted to the side, her quiet smile matching his own. He isn't capable of saying no when she makes that face, so he sheds his coat and toes off his shoes. Simultaneously, River scoots to one side, making room for him on the bed. The Doctor pulls back the sheets and climbs in, lying on his side a respectable distance away. River twists to face him, palms tucked flat beneath her cheek. 

As they face each other in the small bed, the Doctor finds he's at a loss of what to do next. Should he sing? Humans do that to put each other to sleep, don't they? Or is that just for children? Holding her used to do the trick, their heart beats thumping out a slow soothing rhythm. Maybe he'll just hum. That’s a relaxing, non-threatening sound to make. But what should he hum? Funny thing about humming, millions of species can do it, reverberate their vocal cords in various frequencies and tunes. For instance, "Did you know house flies hum in the key of F?"

River blinks at him for a moment, then she smiles, warm and genuine. "Your pillow talk is unique, I'll give you that."

The Doctor gives a self-depreciating laugh. He feels like he’s nine hundred again, like he doesn’t know what to say or where to look. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to go. He gives in and looks where he wants: her eyes. She’s staring back at him, expectant, curious, waiting; so he says the first thing he can think of. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

River shrugs, “Too much coffee, I suppose.“

“And the night after the hospital, when we stayed at yours, had you had too much coffee then, too?”

She considers him, those green eyes as perceptive as always. “You’re one to talk. You’re not sleeping either. Is knowing when women need comforting in the dark your super power?”

“More of a sixth sense.” He teases. “But it’s wasted on me. I’m quite terrible at it.”

“Oh, I don’t’ know.” Her eyes flick to the sheets between them, finding his again as she says, “You’re doing a pretty good job of it now.”

Something in the tone of her voice makes his pulse skip, the air around them thicker, more intimate than it was a moment ago. Nothing exists but this room and her green eyes and thick lashes as they blink at him in the darkness. “Do you want to talk about the nightmares?” He asks softly and her face hardens.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Looking her in the eye suddenly feels far too personal, so he looks down and away, quickly stuttering out an apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“No.” River stops him. “I mean, I never remember them, which isn’t so bad really. If I’m going to have demons at least they’re polite enough to let me forget them when I wake.” It’s her turn to laugh, but it isn’t self-deprecating and hollow. It’s light as air, rolling off her as easily as water on duck feathers.  All the terrible things in her life and all she ever does is forgive, swallowing the evil down and turning it into something beautiful, sending it back into the world via throaty laughs, wicked smirks, and sparkling smiles. 

“Then I’ll stay up all night, and if you have another one, I’ll wake you.” She doesn’t answer immediately so he adds, “If you like.”

Her eyes are as vulnerable as he feels, voice tender as she asks, “What about you? You must be tired, too.”

“Nah,” he smiles as he repeats her words. “Too much coffee.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” River smirks at him and he smirks right back.

“I’m a doctor, not a lawyer.

“Shame. Then you’d have an excuse to wear one of those ostentatious wigs.”

He shudders for dramatic effect. “Horrendous things. Even I wouldn’t wear one of those, and I once wore celery as a boutonnière.

River stifles a yawn to laugh. “I’d like to see that.”

“I’ll bet you would. Now hush. You’ll need your rest if you’re going to make fun of me in the morning.”

She hums, closing her eyes. “Well you make it so easy. How’s a girl to resist?”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” He admits, then quietly adds, “Good night, River.”

“Good night, Doctor.” She whispers back.

They fall silent and her breathing settles, fading into a restful sleep almost immediately. He can't resist the urge to brush her hair from her face, a liberty he shouldn't take, doesn't deserve. But when she relaxes further at the contact, he can’t bring himself to feel guilty.  In fact, the urge to press a kiss to her forehead bubbles so intensely within him he feels he might erupt, the desire to feel her skin against his lips almost overwhelming. In another time, another place, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd kiss her temple and run his fingers through her hair. He'd watch her sleep and thank his lucky stars she let him, that his time hadn't run out.

He doesn't have the right to do any of that anymore.

Instead, he watches her, chest rising and falling, so very thankful for the simple gesture he never thought he'd see again. He is awestruck by her chest expanding and collapsing, by her inhales and exhales, and by the very oxygen she takes into her lungs. He is humbled by the soft breathes she expels between her lips and the way it ghosts across his skin. He is captivated simply because she is _alive_ , and he has never seen anything more beautiful than that in all his days.

She shifts, curling into him, a subconscious gesture as she drifts in and out of sleep. He feels warmer at the contact, her head resting easily on his chest with one arm draped across him. He takes advantage of the sleepy state, holding her as long as she’ll let him and wondering how much of this she’ll remember in the morning. He can't think of a better reason to be still than her in his arms. His body was made to wrap around hers, hold her close, and keep her warm.

 It's the first time he's held her like this since Darillium, but it comes just as naturally as it always has. Suddenly the universe is warm and solid and _right_ , a sensation so much different from the cold emptiness haunting him in her absence. For the first time in a century, he feels like he has a purpose again. He feels whole, a chasm only her smooth skin and double heartbeat could fill.  

It’s all too much, more than he ever dared hope for, and it makes his hearts stutter like kick drums. The Doctor closes his eyes, listening as his pulse races around his body in circles, in a hurry to get nowhere. He sympathizes; he too feels that like he’s constantly rushing forward in an endless circle, always back to her.

River hums unexpectedly and his eyes fly open at the sound of her voice. “You have two hearts.” It’s a statement of fact, River’s sleepy voice struggling to stay afloat even as her subconscious sinks slowly into dreams. The Doctor holds his breath, waiting for her to continue her thought. “Are we the same, then?”

He nods, then quickly realizing she can’t see him, he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, tickled by her hair. In the stillness, he hears his own lips part, his voice a whispers, a barely there puff of air ruffling her riotous curls.  “Bespoke.”

But she doesn’t hear him, already pulled under by the current of sleep.


	10. Hold Tight To What You've Been Handed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve kept you waiting a whole month! Sorry about that. It was the busiest month ever, but hopefully somewhere in these 9k words you can forgive me. And just quickly I wanted to share with you the [cutest drawing](https://www.facebook.com/amandamccoyart/photos/pcb.857009694378770/857008581045548/?type=1&theater) ever that [this lovely girl](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2816965/almbookbuyer) did for the last chapter. I never expected anything I wrote to inspire anyone to draw anything, so I was really touched and wanted to share it.

 

“When he looks at her, I can tell his eyes are locked on something in the past--something that seared deeply and left the worst kind of scar: the inside kind.” – Emily Murdoch

* * *

 

He dreams of them, all the people he's shared adventures with, stolen a bit a time from, and given pieces of his hearts to. Most often he dreams of his Ponds. Not to say he remembers them more fondly than the others, just more clearly. The times and people that came before them are memories of other men, him but not, images in his head that don’t always feel like his own. They lack the clarity of people and places this face has seen, those long ago memories reduced to almost tangible mirages. He remembers the gallery of moments that make up his past like home movies. So distant and long ago lived they’re more like learned facts than actual, witnessed events. Recent times are still alight with color, vivid, at the forefront of his mind. Therefore, he spends his time recalling the taste of fish fingers, the crisp color of Amy’s hair, and the devotion in Rory’s eyes while he can, while the memories are still sharp and clear and unblemished. 

But most vividly, he remembers River. He remembers the richness in her laugh and the crippling way her voice cracked when she couldn't control her emotions or hide them quickly enough. He remembers how suddenly she was thrust on him and how that rush never really faded. Being with her was all urgency and go go go and kiss kiss kiss and she never ever gave him time to come down from his high. And then she was taken, ripped away just as quickly, snatched out from under him like a rug beneath his feet, leaving him to tumble and fall with only the knowledge that she would never again be there to catch him. 

_Heat from the shower purges his body, scalding his flesh and peeling away his sins. But nothing seems to rinse away the guilt. It clings to the epidermis of his skin, grief a disease he can’t wash away. And he tries, oh how he tries to scrub it away, but he only leaves red splotches and bruises as evidence of his transgressions._

_Grief isn't something one can fight. It is both internal and all around, following like a shadow, darkening, tainting. The burden of it rests heavy on his conscience, shoulders slumped and weighed down by his most loyal companion. It's an affliction he's carried for years, but only now that she’s gone does he feel its full weight._

_His knees threaten to buckle under the gravity of the knowledge that she's really, truly gone, never to return. All his days have been used up, all his time run out. It suddenly strikes him that they've shared their last kiss and danced their last dance. He won't hear her laugh again or run his fingers through her hair.  She won't hum in his ear anymore or straighten his bow tie._

_He's been thrust into darkness after living in the light, and he can't help but notice how blind, how black, his vision has become, infinitely more dazed and lost than he ever would have been if the light had never shone at all. He knows what he's missing, what he'll have to do without. Where once the emptiness of his endless TARDIS spoke of possibility and potential, now it only echoes the darkness of the days he's lived and the bleakness of the ones still to come._

_It all feels so final, so fixed, a future he sealed with a screwdriver, singing towers, and tears he couldn't keep at bay. He held her as tight as he could and then let her go with shaking hands, a wobbly smile, and a promise of "next time" that would never come._

_He’s not even sure how he found his way to the shower or how long he’s been standing there, scalding water beating down on his shoulders and back. But his fingers are pruney and he’s forgotten if the tears he's crying are from pain or sadness. Maybe they are one and the same. Or maybe he isn't crying at all. Perhaps he's forgotten how. Perhaps he finally ran out, wrung of the last of his humanity._

_When he steps out of the shower, the mirror is foggy, almost all of it, anyway. There's a message written on the glass, the oils from the tips of her finger sparing parts of the mirror from the steam. It's old, a remnant, an echoing sentiment from a woman long dead. What's left of her remains pristine, untainted even while the world around her grows ever more vague. He stands directly in front of the message, looking passed the words and into his own reflection, parts of him blurred and ambiguous and others painfully clear. He is both a shadow and the perfect portrait of himself, but only what's left of her shows him for what he really is, exposes him with crisp clarity. Only through her does he see himself. He is naked and alone and angry and sad and all those things only River knew and loved him for._

_He opened his chest for her to rewire and landscape all to her liking, and without her presence, he knows what will happen next. His insides will be neglected and untouched, his emotions feral and closed off, his hearts will grow cold and distant without her constant love and care._ _It hurts to be a vessel without a destination or an outlet, no one to dote on or impress, all those pent up emotions bubbling inside of him until he feels like he might burst. All that old man anger he’d buried beneath the guise of jolly youth finally cracking through to the surface._

_A bottle of her perfume still sits on the counter. The scent of it lingers in the air like a phantom, an absence clinging to life long after the source has faded. He wants to break the bottle, to throw it against the mirror and see how it shatters to tiny little pieces. He wants to watch the liquid run down the smooth glass, blurring the evidence of a love he no longer has. He wants to wipe away the message on the mirror, erasing once and for all the lingering hold she still has on his hearts. It’s not fair that his love for her should remain when she is no longer there to feel it._

_But he refrains from removing what's left of her. He's forgotten how to exist without her presence, if he ever really knew. Who is he without her, she who soothes and reprimands and understands? His salvation, his judge, jury, and executioner has left him here. Waiting. Hoping. Remembering. She left him without cause or answers or closure, with only her ghosts for company._

 

He stirs from his dreams, silently cursing his mind for making him relive such terrible moments. As if he needs a reminder that she's gone. But he can pretend otherwise as long as he keeps his eyes closed. He can imagine that the spot beside him on the bed is still warm, that her body is curled up beside him, cocooned in bedsheets. He can picture her hair perfectly, fanned out against the pillows in a messy, sleep tussled halo. His sleepy, delirious senses can even perfectly conjure her unique scent: perfume and lotion, time and trouble clinging to the sheets. He takes advantage of it, breathing in subtle breathes, sipping like a fine wine. He doesn’t want to drink it down all at once. He wants to saver what he can, bask in the pretense before he has to wake up and face the reality of an empty bed, cool sheets, and the ear shattering silence of being alone on his ship. 

But sadly, lucidity has begun its slow assault on his sleepy senses. Giving in, he sighs, blinking lazily back into consciousness. Reality finds him, as it always does, in an empty bed. There is no warm body beside him, no hair tickling his cheek or green eyes to greet him. He quickly pries his eyes away from the empty sheets before they dwell there too long and his traitorous brain sends him spiraling into more long ago moments he’d rather forget.

The Doctor rolls to his back, eyes seeking the ceiling for the familiar cracks and shadows he can always rely on to scar his ship, constants in his world of chaos. What he finds instead startles him. There is no crack that he swears looks just like one of her shoes, absent is the small dent from where he once opened a bottle of champagne with a little too much vigor.

Alarmed and more than a little disoriented, he bolts upright, looking around frantically. The room is sparse and lacking in cozy décor, but at least he’s on the TARDIS. He can feel that much in his bones. So the question is, why had he not made it to his bedroom? There must have been a reason. Perhaps tonight was one of the many nights his ship knew he needed distance from the memories, lest he drown in them. Or maybe his room was water logged in the more literal sense. The pool has been known to have a mind of its own.

He goes to rip the blankets off with a flourish, but stalls when he sees the quilt, events from the last few days suddenly flooding back.

  _As soon as you can X._

_“Who are you?”_

_“River, you’re bleeding.”_

_“I am a weapon.”_

_“She makes me better.”_

_“You could stay, if you want."_

A new, better, brighter, more complicated reality hits him, and he looks down at his clothing for confirmation. Low and behold, he’s still in his vest, shirt, and trousers. His coat and shoes are still on the floor where he abandoned them in favor of warm, curvy River. He lifts a bold hand, daring to rest it on her side of the bed, only marginally stifling his complete and totally joy when he finds it is, indeed, still slightly warm. The Doctor practically leaps out of bed. What’s the point in wasting any more time in bed when being awake is infinitely better than being asleep? Even the soreness in his neck is worthwhile when accompanied by the knowledge that he slept funny because of _her_. There’s a chance that the tingly feeling in his fingers isn’t from his arm being twisted beneath his own body, but rather, it’s because she slept on it, cuddled up beside him so tight it cut off circulation.

He grins at that, feeling suddenly invincible. Dreams can’t hurt him anymore, not when she’s here. Her presence is proof that his dreams are just that, bad dreams, distant memories.

He doesn’t bother with his shoes or coat. Why risk covering any lingering scent of her perfume that may still cling to his clothes? There’s another familiar smell wafting through the air as he makes his way into the hall, further confirmation that he’s not alone. Whatever it is, it smells amazing, and the demands of his stomach encourage his feet to follow the scent with renewed vigor.

The source of the delicious aroma resides in the kitchen, as does the chef. The Doctor pauses, hovering in the doorway when he finds River standing with her back to him in front of the stove. Her hair is still sleep ravished and wild.  An oversized emerald shirt hangs down to the middle of her thighs, and on it he can see stains where she’s wiped her hands while cooking. Her feet are clothed in white cotton socks, and he watches with curious, tenders eyes as she balances on one foot, the other lifting to scratch an itch on the opposing ankle. The simple action makes him smile more than it should. 

River Song always has a plan, always makes sure that when she enters a room, acquaintances, friends, and strangers alike all see her the way she intends to be seen. It’s heartwarming that, even now, she would allow him to see her like this, free of make up and costumes, fine jewelry and fancy dresses. She is just herself, a little bit wild, a little bit sweet, and absolutely stunning in every way.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” River asks without ever turning around, and the Doctor prays he hadn’t been gawking at her for as long as he suspects he has.

It takes him half a second, but he swears his hearts skip a beat when he registers what she said, his insides tumbling like a ship on stormy seas as he clears his throat and steps into the room. “What did I say?”

River twists, looking over her shoulder at him. Her eyes drag over his body, scrutinizing his disheveled appearance just a fraction longer than necessary. With a small smirk, she turns back around. “Fish fingers and custard.” There’s a smile in her voice and it sounds as brilliant as breakfast smells. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Starving.” He confesses, relieved he hadn’t accidentally confessed his undying love for her in his sleep.

“You’re in luck. I owed you a breakfast.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He tells her, following her to the stove, where he can make a more detailed inspection of the source of the heavenly smells. She made pancakes, the American kind that is best served with chocolate chips and loads of maple syrup. It’s dessert for breakfast and the sight of it makes his stomach growl. If he wasn’t in love with her already, he definitely is now. “On second thought, you do owe me, lots and lots of breakfast for a long, long while.”

She hums, amused. “Next one is on you, I’m afraid. Now be a dear and get the plates.”

With a clap of his hands and an enthusiastic twirl, he heads for the cabinets, gathering plates, glasses, and cutlery. He sets the table obediently, but the words ‘ _next one’_ haven't escaped his notice. She said it with such promise, a statement of fact that there will be more breakfasts, more mornings like this one. It puts a smile on his face so wide he’s afraid his cheeks might crack.

“Someone’s happy this morning.” River comments as she switches off the stove and turns around, a dish stacked high with pancakes in her hand.

“Must have had a really good night’s sleep.” He offers, voice nonchalant as he pours them both a full cup of juice.

River’s eyes glance up at his as she takes her seat, voice just as calm as she says, “Me, too.”

He takes the seat across from her, filling his plate high with pancakes and slathering them in a thick layer of syrup. Finding a hunk that’s particularly prominent with chocolate chips, he forks it up and shovels it into his mouth; and _good heavens_ he’s never tasted anything so wonderful. He needs to meet the person that invented these and shake their hand. How did she even make these? And why is she always so good at everything? She's brilliant, his River, and-

“I could bloody kiss you.” The words fall out of his mouth, clinging to the air, thick and sticky like the syrup he just doused over his pancakes.

River seems unfazed by his confession, arching a brow at him as she quips, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

He means to say something incredibly clever and charismatic, really, he does, but the mischievous look in her eyes makes him forget how to swallow and he nearly chokes, sputtering and coughing his way through an unintelligible response.

Being the vixen that she is, River sips victoriously at her orange juice, hiding a smug smile behind the rim of her glass. “Down boy. I was only joking.”

“Good one.” He manages through a scratchy throat.

River smiles as she turns her attention back to her plate. “I was thinking. Today we should try scoping out the ruins of some of my old dig sites. Maybe even some of my lectures. If I was looking for an archaeology professor, I know that would be the first place I’d check. Of course, I can’t very well sit in on my own class, so you’ll have to do it.”

“Somewhere hot and dusty or an entire lecture on archaeology?” The Doctor snorts. “Pass.”

River pauses before taking a bite to shoot him a rather miffed look. “Do you have any better ideas?”

Swallowing down a rather generous mouthful, he answers, “Yes, actually.”

“No offense, honey, but I’m not sure I trust your suggestions anymore. Half the places you’ve taken us have been utterly dull or we’ve ended up covered in slime.”

“To be fair, the incident on Limus Prime was hardly my fault.”

“I suppose it was mine, was it?”

“Well, actually-“ He stops short, the sight of her eyebrow creeping up her forehead encouraging him to change course. “That’s not the point. The point is this will be different.”

“It better be. I’m on my last pair of jodhpurs.”

“You won’t be needing those.” He says dismissively, gulping down his juice.

“Oh?” River swallows, eyeing him curiously as she takes another sip from her glass. “A planet that doesn’t require trousers? I’m loving it already.”

“Actually,” the Doctor sets his glass down with a soft thud, leaning toward her with a grin.  “Not wearing trousers is only a requirement for women.”

-

It took him a while to finally decide on which era appropriate suit he should wear. In the end, he went with his favorite thick coat. It was dusty with bad memories when he pulled it from the trunk. But out here in the console room, waiting for River, it feels like it will keep him warmer than it ever did up on that cloud.  

“You clean up nice.” The caress of River’s voice floats to him from behind. “And here I was beginning to think you only owned one suit.”

“I’ve been known to dress up from time to time, when the occasion calls for it.” He embellishes the statement by placing a top hat on his head and spinning around to face her. The sight he finds nearly takes his breath away, and he doesn’t even try to fight the way his eyes wander as he says, “But I doubt anyone will be looking at me.”

River looks phenomenal, her full figure and soft curves were made for these clothes. The dress she wears is different from last time, but equally as stunning. It’s long and elegant; it’s dark, forest green color accenting the hues in her eyes. The fabric is embroidered with subtle crimson patterns that highlight the fullness of her lips and the flush in her cheeks, and a matching red ribbon holds her hair high atop her head, somehow taming her magical curls. She’s all reds and greens, golds and smiles. She looks like Christmas.

“It is rather pretty, isn’t it?” River says, looking down at the dress as she runs her hands over the bodice, fingers tracing the boning of her corset. When her eyes meet his, they’re sparkling. “Dare I ask why you have a wardrobe full of women’s clothes?”

“I’m full of surprises.” He says just as playfully, tapping her nose and spinning towards the door. “And if you liked that one, you’ll like this one even more." His fingers twist around the handle, grinning at River when she comes to stand by his side. “London 1814, the final day of the last of the Great Frost Fairs. England will never see a winter quite like this one ever again, an icy wonderland of skating and shopping and merrymaking. And it’s all just behind these doors.”

His quiet voice fills the air like a static charge, energy mounting and building, thick and heavy between them. With matching, sly smiles on both their lips, he swings open the TARDIS doors dramatically, their faces instantly assaulted by a gust of cool, dry air.

But instead of a frozen paradise before them, they are met with a dull and cracked brick wall.  "Oh sweetie,” River purrs, “you do take me to the nicest places."

“At least there's no slime." He reasons, boots crunching as he steps out into the snow covered alleyway. “And you're one to talk. What about that seedy bar on your vortex history?" The Doctor bends down, scooping up a handful of snow and giving it a lick. It definitely tastes like London, and judging by the freshness of snowfall, it’s been less than an hour since their last selves left.

"Yeah. Sorry about that.” River steps out, gracefully avoiding the sludge and snow and landing on the cobblestone street instead. “Should have known it’d be a little rough for you.”

The Doctor steps nearer to her, offering his arm. “ _A little rough_ I can handle. That place was suicide.”

River rolls her eyes, but accepts his arm. “Oh honestly, it wasn't that bad. Only some of them were hardened criminals."

The Doctor gives a derisive snort. They all looked pretty shifty to him. “How did you even find a place like that?”

“A friend showed it to me. We used to go drinking there.” A warm, nostalgic laugh that sounds like memories and trouble radiates out from her chest. “Jack loved a good bar fight.”

The Doctor’s brows pinch together just at the thought, but surely… No, it couldn’t possibly be, “Jack Harkness?”

“You know him?” River glances up with bright, intrigued eyes, but upon witnessing the Doctor’s frown, quickly smirks and looks away. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Working his jaw in annoyance, the Doctor does his best not to scoff, choosing instead to mutter to himself about the injustices in life. “Me, she forgets, but Jack bloody Harkness she remembers.”

“Well, have you seen him, sweetie? It’s not exactly a face you forget.”

They emerge from the alleyway onto a street bustling with carriages and couples strolling arm in arm. There are frolicking children and men in fine suits and women in fancy dresses. Decorating the scene are street vendors and brick buildings and chimneys piercing the grey London skyline. And at the sight of such simple glory, River seems to forget all about Jack and crude dive bars and nights spent elsewhere.

Her grip on his arm tightens, seemingly content to let him escort her as they turn left and begin the short walk to the bridge. The February air is cold and it rattles in his chest like loose wiring, but River is warm as she leans into his side, her hand tucked under his elbow.

“I must admit, it’s better than I was expecting.”

“See, I told you you’d love it. You certainly did last time.” He wants to eat his words the second they leave his mouth, gobble them back up and swallow them down like they were never said at all.

But they were said, and River looks up at him with curious, somewhat suspicious eyes. “And how would you know that?”

The Doctor clears his throat, casually stating, “Your father mentioned it to me once in passing.”

_The door to the TARDIS creaks open, and that must be River and the Roman now. It took them longer than he'd expected. But knowing River, she probably needed extra time to gather a small arsenal or smoke-bomb hairspray or whatever else space vixens use in these situations. But only one set of heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs and the Doctor looks up curiously, "Where’s River?"_

_Rory looks lost, confused, like something bitter is lodged in his throat. "She's not coming with us."_

_The Doctor doesn't follow. "She's meeting us there?"_

_"No. She's just," Rory shakes his head. "Not coming."_

_The Doctor wouldn't claim to know everything about River Song, but he knows enough to know she wouldn't run from a fight. Certainly not when he needed- no, not needed, **could use** her help. They were supposed to be… At least, he thought… It doesn't matter now. Clearly, he was wrong._

_"She was... different.” Rory speaks again. “Kept going on about some date with you. Something about ice skating and Stevie Wonder."_

_The Doctor scoffs. He doubts very much he'll want to take her anywhere after this. He has half a mind to stomp out of here and demand to hear it himself, demand to know what could possibly be more important than Amy. "Did she say anything else? Did she give a reason?" He all but snarls._

_"Just that she couldn't. She said," Rory hesitates. "She said this is the day you find out who she is."_

“Were you and my father close?”

He deliberates for a moment, not entirely sure of the answer. Rory always saw him a bit too clearly for them to ever really be close. Like River, Rory was never afraid to challenge him or tell him when he’d gone too far. And while Amy may have looked to the Doctor for answers in the beginning, at the end it was the Doctor who looked to Rory for guidance, as an example of what a good man should be.

“I looked up to him.” The Doctor confesses. “But I was closer with your mother.” They learned to stop running together, that some adventures didn’t come in the form of Daleks and Cyber ships. Some adventures started when you stopped running and let real life catch you. Some adventures could only be had when sitting still. “We grew up together, in a sense. For a while there, your parents could hardly be rid of me.”

“Does that mean you’ve known me since I was a child?” River asks, and the Doctor sobers slightly.

“I didn’t watch you grow up, if that’s what you mean. Time travel… it makes life a bit messy at times. But I did see you once when you were a young girl.”

“And?”

_“She forced her way out. She must be incredibly strong.”_

_“Incredibly strong and running away. I like her.”_

“And you were just as brave and troublesome as you are now.”

She seems satisfied with this. Dropping the topic as they reach the bridge. They stand near the rail, looking out over the frozen Thames. Beneath them, they can see skaters and tents and shops and people sitting by fires, cooking and drinking. Laughter rings in his ears from all directions and a group of children celebrate the weather with a snowball fight.

It’s beautiful, especially at a distance, where one can take it all in. Things often look better in retrospect or from far away. Distance and time make the best moments stand out. They draw our attention like beacons, only illuminating the best parts and forgetting the mundane. Up close things tend to lose their magic. Every moment is as important as the last and therefore nothing seems special. But even up close he can tell this moment will be one that radiates light and fond memories. One look at his surrounds tells him this day will be just as special as the last time they were here.

“The ice will never be this thick again, you know.” He confesses it like a secret, gazing longingly out over the ice, the sweet burn of winter and years stinging at his eyes. “In the coming years, modern architecture and improvements to the banks will make it nearly impossible for the river to freeze over completely. But right now, it’s thick enough to hold an elephant. One actually crossed down by Blackfriar Bridge. That will certainly never happen again.”

River hums, voice teasing, “No, Health and Safety would have a fit.”

“I’m serious.” He chides her. “People will never gather together on the ice like this ever again. They don’t know it, but this really is the end of an era.”

All around them are warm bodies, flushed cheeks, and cold, hard ice. The frozen ground seems unyielding, but when it finally cracks, the icy water beneath will swallow you whole. Such is the way most people fall in love. They stomp and beat and demand for it. And when it finally finds them they discover they were entirely unprepared for it. Falling for River was quite the opposite. He was already caught in the currents, half drown as he kicked and struggled his way through the abyss of time and space. And then he met her and she pulled him towards the light, breaking the surface so his starving lungs could breathe again.

She is not the water that drowns him. She is the air that he breathes.

Beside him, River chuckles to herself and his eyes are drawn to her mouth like a moth to a flame. Her mood must be infectious because there’s a smile in his voice when he asks, “What is it?”

“It’s nothing. I was just thinking, it’s the last of the Frost Fairs and technically I’m seeing it twice.”

“We could go for three if you like.”

“Sounds lovely, but people might start to notice if three of me were walking around in different clothes at the same time.” River says, tugging at his arm. “Come on, let’s start looking around. Make sure the communicator is active.”

They begin a lazy stroll through the streets, walking arm in arm, stopping occasionally in shops selling tea, roasted meats, book, toys, or anything else that strikes their fancy. For a while, the sun peaks out from behind the sheet of gray that is the English sky, offering a brief respite from the bitter cold. It’s an omen of milder weather on the horizon, signaling an end to the little ice age. Despite the shift in temperature, River continues to cling to his side. It’s probably just for show, putting on an act of a courting couple so not to draw attention. But whatever the cause may be, the Doctor certainly has no complaints. In fact, he’s so lost in the moment that when River turns her body into his, snuggling up to him in a way that is most definitely not appropriate for Victorian values, he almost forgets why they’re here.

Their eyes meet and they’re wearing matching grins as they _hold one another like lovers, laugh like old friends, and orbit like neighboring galaxies. They dance and spin, begging to collide, to be one. Their passion is a force of nature, capable of wreaking destruction, destroying planets and stars and entire solar systems. But it’s a beautiful kind of destruction, cleansing, majestic, and awe inspiring._

 _As they skate, his mind wanders,_ _contemplating what type of galaxy she would be. Spiral? Elliptical? Lenticular? Nothing seems right. They’re all too simple, too ordinary. River Song would be something new, something original and never seen before. A galaxy to redefine the laws of physics._

 

“Don’t be alarmed.” She says, running her hands up his lapels but keeping her eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. His hands find her waist easily, face scrunching in confusion until she says, “And don’t turn around, but I think we’re being followed.”

On instinct, he turns his head to look behind him and River catches his cheek, half slapping his face to make him face forward. "What did I just say?"

“I wanted to see!” He pouts, and River huffs, detangling herself and feigning interest in a random trinket.

“Fine. But be cool about it.”

With a smirk, the Doctor fluffs his lapels. “I’m always cool.”

River’s only argument is a roll of her eyes as she casually goes about her business. “On your left, three shops down in the black coat.”

Placing his hand on her lower back, he discretely turns to see. It takes him a moment to scan through the crowd, but eventually he finds the man in question. He doesn’t look like much, his dark clothing and practiced frown blending in fairly well with the other sour-faced rich folk. But River’s right. The man’s clothing isn’t quite period appropriate. There are only a few subtle differences that would go unnoticed by most, little things like too many buttons in the wrong places or a pattern that won’t be in style for another few decades.

Looking back to River, the Doctor gapes. "How did you even notice that?"

That trademark, smug smile she wears so well has taken hold of her lips as she answers, "I’m an archaeologist. It's my job to know." She spins in his arms, that confident curve in her cheeks only growing when he doesn’t step back. “Are you impressed, Doctor?”

“By you?” He grins, inclining his head towards hers. “Always.”

They remain locked like that for an endless moment, both half grinning at the other. River leans toward him slightly, just a fraction of an inch, just enough for their chests to brush. His eyes flick to her lips out of habit or need. They’re still curved in amusement, still distractingly red and slightly swollen from the cold. He forces himself to look back up, eyes finding hers again just in time for her to wink and step past him.

“Doesn’t really look like a Time Agent,” she observes, their shoulders brushing as she passes. “But he certainly has the toys.”

The Doctor lets out a sigh that’s somehow both relief and disappointment before following on her heels. “Which begs the question of _how_ did they get the toys?”

“Black market, no doubt.” River answers, guiding them subtly closer to the man, skimming through merchandise and watching her target without looking at him, making prey of the man that fancied himself her predator. “It’s not always easy but there are always ways.”

His eyes fall helplessly to her wrist, where he knows her vortex manipulator is discreetly strapped underneath her fine clothes. The not quite legal device is poetic evidence of the gray area that is River Song. It aptly represents the woman who isn’t afraid to ruffle feathers and make waves, who made a name for herself breaking back into prisons, hunting weeping angels, and defacing monuments for the sake of inside jokes. The name River Song makes Daleks give pause, and the Doctor shudders to think what type of organization would dare tamper with her timeline. Who could be so efficient as to hide in the shadows, evading them at every turn only to have such an utter disrespect for the delicate fabric of time? He fears he already knows the answer: the dangerous kind.

“If these men are only posing as Time Agents,” the Doctor observes, “that would explain why they didn’t hesitate to hold a hospital hostage.”

River’s eyes flick to his in agreement. “All the methods with none of the morals.”

As their eyes meet, a familiar sense of completion creeps through him. It's a feeling he only gets with her. His equal, who can plot and scheme every bit as well as he can, who can read his thoughts with a glance and match him at every turn, who does more than just keep up. She challenges him and does things he can’t. Talking with her like this is like inhaling fresh air with lungs that had learned to make due with smog.  

_"Octavian said you killed a man."  Her face sobers instantly, eclipsed by shadows that have nothing to do with the setting sun._

_"Yes, I did." There are trace amounts of guilt in her voice. But there are buckets of it in her eyes. An ocean of stories hidden in her seas of green. Pain still runs deep even if the scars have faded with the sands of time._

_"A good man."_

_"A very good man. The best man I've ever known."_

_She confesses to murder like it's her own personal scarlet letter. But she wears it well, baring her burdens the way a moon does its craters, an unavoidable blemish. As if she did what needed doing, not for herself but because it had to be done for the greater good._

_This is the moment he gets it, that he's no longer angry she dragged him and his companion into danger. He does that all the time. Maybe she did it because they're the same. Maybe she lives for the thrill, driven by the want for adventure and the need to repent. Maybe River Song understands._

 

A shrill scream from behind him rips the Doctor out of his reverie. Pulse suddenly spiking, he turns to locate the commotion. Screaming is rarely ever good, the things that cause screaming, even worse. Another high pitched yell rings out as a snowball explodes on a young girl’s coat, the piercing sound quickly morphing into giggles as the snow falls around her. The Doctor’s heart-rate slows as the sense of panic fades, and he watches the frivolity, the sounds of their laughter bringing a smile to his face.

But another familiar sound wipes the smile away as quickly as it came, drowning his brief respite of ease with renewed urgency. The communicator chirps in his top pocket and he dives for it, fishing around briefly before finally withdrawing the handheld device. Active once again, it now flashes _CODE NINE_ in block red letters.

Frowning at the display screen, he turns back around. “River, what do you-?” The words die on his tongue when he finds only empty air where River had been standing.

“River?” He shouts, a wave of dread coursing through his veins and heartbeat picking up speed as he frantically searches the crowd, scanning for any signs of green eyes and gold hair. But there isn’t a trace of her anywhere. She’s gone, vanished. The man in the black coat is no longer present either and the Doctor is just about to panic when he catches sight of a discarded shawl near the entrance of an alleyway. He bolts for the cloth like his life depends on it, barging past shoppers and vendors until the object is at his feet. He doesn’t waste time examining it. He knows it’s hers; he can feel it in his bones. Without a second thought, he darts down the alleyway, cursing himself for his idiocy and praying to any deity who will listen that he’s not too late. He never should have looked away. Anything could have happened by now. They could have taken her or drugged her or any number of unspeakable things. The Doctor rounds the corner, hearts in his throat, prepared to find her captured or bleeding or, worse, find nothing at all, just snow and bricks and footprints that lead to nowhere because he’s too late, always too late.

What he finds instead makes his jaw drop. The man in the black coat is sprawled out on the soggy ground, one elbow propping himself up while the other rubs at a sore jaw. River stands a few feet in front of him, smirking, with her gun aimed square at the man’s chest.

“River!” The Doctor blurts, or at least he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell with his pulse pounding relentlessly in his ears.

"Nice of you to join us. I wondered how long it'd take you to notice." She speaks so effortlessly he can’t decide if he’s pleased she’s still alive or furious with her for taking matters into her own hands.

His elevated heart rates seem to decide for him as he all but shouts, "What do you think you're doing?!"

"What we came here to do,” her eyes narrow at the man near her feet. “Ask our friend here a few questions.”

He means to protest, but the device in his hand beeps again, demanding his attention, and the small distraction gives River all the time she needs to begin her questioning.

"Now, who are you and who do you work for?"

The man doesn't answer but judging by the look on his face, he has a few choice words in mind.

“River, I-“ The Doctor begins, but is quickly silenced as River’s voice brings him to heel.

“Hush now.” She barks in what he’s come to know as her ‘Professor’ voice, the one that demands instant obedience. “We have to give him time to answer. It’s hard to concentrate when you have a broken nose.”

“His nose isn’t-“ He begins only to be quieted once again, this time by the sound of the butt of River’s gun colliding with the unlucky fellow’s face. There’s a sickening crunch, and the Doctor cringes. This isn’t how he operates. He is a man of peace and bargaining, a soldier for the greater good.

But this isn’t about him. This is about River, about what they stole from her, from _them_. And as much as he wants to hate the sight of swelling around that man’s eye and the crimson dripping down his lip, he doesn’t. He should step in, say something. But instead, he looks away, reaching into his other pocket for his sonic and aiming it at the communicator to see what else he can find.

“Shall I repeat the question?” River asks with a faux smile. It’s times like these the Doctor can almost believe there’s a psychopath buried down deep in the woman he loves, when there’s a gun in her hand and an obstacle between her and what she wants.

The subject of her displeasure must sense this, too, finally opening his mouth to speak as he wipes a trail of blood away with the back of his hand. “I work for myself.” His voice is gruff and irritable with all the scorn of a grumpy teenager.

“And what do you want?” River demands, and the man’s iron scowl finally cracks, eyes lighting up like he’s just become privy to some private joke.

“Haven't you figured that out yet?” There’s a taunting twist in his voice that lures the Doctor’s eyes away from the communicator and onto the smile playing at the man’s lips. The sight of it makes the Doctor bristle.

River remains unaffected, but he can see her patience is waning. “Do you want me to break another body part or do you want to answer my questions?”

"Do your worst.” He sneers. “Your techniques are sloppy without your training."

One of the Doctor’s hearts nearly skips a beat, but he remains silent, waiting for River’s reaction. She doesn’t disappoint, hardly missing a beat as she fires back. "Maybe. But from two feet away, my aim is still pretty good." 

"No arguments here, sugar. You proved that at Lake Silencio."

This time River isn’t as quick to hide her confusion. No smart mouth remarks spill from her tongue and the fraction of error proves to be enough. The man chuckles, rumbling and low; and the Doctor takes a protective step toward River, losing all interest in the communicator.

"Did I say something funny?" River snaps, fingers twitching around her gun.

"You don’t know. He didn't tell you, did he?” The man laughs again, tossing his head back like they’re mates sharing a few drinks rather than a subject of their interrogation. When he looks back toward them, his eyes fall on the Doctor, smirking. “Oh that is just so typical."

The Doctor can’t quite place what comes over him in that moment. Maybe it’s something in the man’s voice, in that arrogant tone he’d used to bait them, that set him off. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s so much he doesn’t know and he’s had quite enough not knowing. Or maybe it’s the accusation in the man’s eyes, judgement he deserves but doesn’t want to see. Whatever the cause, the Doctor finds himself stalking towards the man in question, dropping the com device, uncaring as it clatters to the cobblestone streets.

He’s vaguely aware of River as she crouches carefully to get it, her eyes and gun still trained expertly on their target. But most of the Doctor’s attention is focused on the man before him. The derisive look on the man’s face hasn’t faded and it makes the Doctor’s grip on the sonic tighten, brandishing the tool of science as if it were a weapon.

The Doctor crouches down only inches away. When he speaks, it’s with the quiet, daunting voice that inspires both fear and legend alike. The Hyde to his Jekyll and when it rears its head, it gives even him chills. His words are quiet, barely a whisper, making the man strain to listen. They always do. They drink his words into their hearts and minds like gospel. How could they not when confronted with such sharp yet hooded eyes, young and old and so very dangerous despite their chocolatey hazel and childlike streaks of blue. 

"I am not a violent man,” The Doctor begins, and, _oh_ , there it is, that low simmer of anger he keeps well hidden, the on coming storm bubbling and popping up in little bursts like grease on a too hot frying pan. “Let’s not find out what it takes to make me one, eh?” The Doctor searches the eyes of the other man and only once he’s seen that flicker of understanding, of worry and fear, does he see fit to continue. “Tell me what you want with her. Why are you rewriting her?"

For a moment, all the man does is blink at the Doctor like he’s a puzzle to be solved. And maybe he honestly doesn’t know to whom he’s speaking. Maybe this man doesn’t know who he is or what he’s capable of. Maybe he doesn’t quite know what he’s gotten himself into.  But judging by the smile blooming up the man’s cheeks, he either has no idea who he’s dealing with or the Doctor and River are in deeper than they thought.

"That's what you think is happening?" The man finally speaks, letting out a bark of laughter like he hasn’t a care in the world, like there isn't a gun pointed at his chest and a bringer of darkness only inches from his face. “You know, that's the problem with you. You have to make everything so complicated. Not everything is elaborate and grand. Some things are simple. You’ll see.” The man shrugs, a smirk curling his cheeks. “Or maybe you won’t.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” The Doctor jeers and the man tilts forward, voice nearly a whisper.

“It means, _Doctor_ " and the way he spits the title tells the Doctor that this man knows exactly who he is and what he's capable of. “We've already won."

“On your feet you two.” River’s voice cuts through the air, but neither man breaks eye contact. “We need to go. He called for back up. They’ll be here any second.”

With narrowed eyes, the Doctor stands, taking a step back as he turns to face River. She’s somehow managed to hack the device one handed, her other hand still busy keeping the gun trained on the subject.

“What makes you so sure?" The Doctor asks, crossing the small space between them.

“Code Nine.” She says, flashing him a screen that lists the first ten codes and their functions. “It’s a request for assistance.” The Doctor takes the device off her hands gladly, scrolling through the contents as River directs her attention back to her hostage. “You, on your feet. Now. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

The man complies, but the Doctor is far too impressed with River’s discovery to worry about anything else. “How did you manage this?”

"I looked.” River declares. “Didn’t you think to press buttons? Or did you just wave your magic stick?”

The Doctor opens his mouth with the intent of defending said ‘magic stick’, but the sound of phaser fire drowns out his words. He ducks, but not in time to save his top hat from flying off his head in a tattered mess of ruined fabric. The hostage seizes his opportunity, lunging for River’s gun. But she’s faster, and by the time the Doctor can scramble to her aid, she’s already side stepped her attacker and pulled his back to her chest, using him as a shield, her gun pressed to him temple.

The Doctor presses his back to River’s, brandishing his sonic toward the back of the alleyway, looking for an escape. River keeps her eyes forward, focused on the group of four armed men that now block the entrance of the alleyway. Their only chance of escape is the bend at the end of the alley that he hopes leads out onto the street and not to the back of a building.

“I have a plan.” The Doctor whispers, tilting his head over his shoulder and slipping the communicator back in his pocket.

“Me, too.” River whispers back and the Doctor exhales a sigh of relief.

“Oh, good, because I was lying. What’s your idea?”

“They’re going to let us walk out of here.” River announces loud enough for the men to hear her. “And if they so much as trip in my direction, I’ll shoot him.” She means it. The Doctor can tell by the tone of her voice. What he doesn’t know is to what level of intensity her gun is set.

No one speaks or moves while the leader of the group contemplates River’s terms. The silence stretches on and the Doctor twists his head to see over River's shoulder, thinking the men might have surrendered.

“No deal.” The leader of the group speaks up, lifting his gun and firing at River’s hostage in one smooth motion. Judging by the force with which River knocks into his back, the Doctor safely assumes it hit the man somewhere in the chest. He goes limp in River’s arms almost immediately, and she grunts under the weight of his body.

“Okay, plan B.” River manages through gritted teeth.

“What's plan B?” The Doctor hisses in her ear. These men were clearly not willing to negotiate, and if they would so carelessly shoot their own men, they would most certainly shoot them.

“Run!” River shouts, throwing the man’s body forward, distracting the attackers long enough for the two of them bolt for the other end of the alley. The Doctor’s hand finds Rivers instinctively, all but dragging her away as she lays down cover fire. Pulses of Mezon energy singe the brick walls and bounce off the ground near their feet, the 51st century weapons sounding foreign and wrong amid such simple surroundings.

They reach the bend in the street, only momentarily relieved from the onslaught of gun fire, and the Doctor stops dead in his tracks. It doesn’t lead to the street; it’s a dead end. They’re cornered, trapped with their pursuers hot on their heels.

The Doctor’s eyes scan the vicinity, landing on a rickety back door that leads god knows where. But it’s their only hope of escape, so he tightens his grip on River’s hand and pulls her along behind him, pointing his sonic at the lock. It disengages with a click and he releases her hand in favor of the door handle. He twists but the door doesn’t budge.

“What are you doing?” River demands, taking her eyes off the alleyway to watch as the Doctor throws his shoulder against the wooden barricade.

“Improvising!” He shouts back, giving another firm shove.

The door gives just in time for their pursuers to round the corner, and River turns instinctively, laying down cover fire.

“This way!”  The Doctor calls, victorious as he reaches back for her hand. She doesn’t take it. For the longest half second in his life, the Doctor’s palm is met with only cool air. His head whips around to where River stands, time itself freezing as his eyes are drawn to her chest, where the fabric of her dress has been singed and torn. She doesn’t speak and neither does he, watching helplessly as she stumbles forward, collapsing into his arms as her eyes roll back into her skull and flutter closed.

He catches her easily, arms folding around her like she were his life preserver as he drags her inside, kicking the door closed behind him and locking it with his sonic. “River.” The Doctor begs, falling to his knees and cradling her in his arms. “River, talk to me.” He pats at her cheeks, but she remains unresponsive, her head lulling back.

He can't tell much about the building they're in. Judging by the numerous crates he spots in his peripheral vision, it's probably some type of storage. But he doesn't rightly care. All he knows is the smell of singed fabric, the weight of River's comatose body, and the relentless pounding of his panicking hearts.

Or perhaps it's not his hearts at all. Outside, the men have reached the door, unloading blow after blow of phaser fire to the unsteady door. Any minute now its rusty hinges will give and they’ll be caught. Even if the Doctor could run with River in his arms, there’s no where to go; they’re well and truly cornered now. So he dives for the vortex manipulator strapped to her wrist, nearly burning himself when his fingers close around a hot bit of metal. One of the power cells is fried. It must have been hit while they were running. But there should be enough juice for one trip. At least he hopes so. It’s set for coordinates he doesn’t recognize, but there’s no time to change them. With one final glance at his lover, unconscious in his arms, he hopes the location she picked is a safe one. He hopes that once they’re there, he’ll be able to help her. Hell, he hopes they even make it somewhere at all and don’t end up stranded in the middle of the vortex. He hopes it's not too late.

With River’s image burned into his subconscious, the Doctor closes his eyes, engages the device, and hopes.


	11. Two Lost Souls Swimming in a Fish Bowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone reading, especially those who've left kudos and/or comments! They really do mean everything :)

“Love is many things and sometimes we are never really sure if it even exists, but all I know is that if you were to show me her soul in a photograph, I wouldn't even ask to see the others.” -Christopher Poindexter

* * *

 

The universe crackles back into existence, reality folding around him in a kinetic shock wave that makes his hairs stand on end, sparks of vortex energy still nipping at his skin. Upon landing, a handful of things become abundantly clear. The air is humid and his knees are pressed into a rough but forgiving surface, his trousers becoming increasingly soggy as he kneels on the gritty, damp ground. The smell of dimethyl sulphide in the air tells him he's near a large body of water, an ocean, probably.

It's not Earth. The air isn't right. The oxygen levels are too high, free of pollution and other synthetic chemicals. And the lighting is too low and dull, like the sun is shining through a filter of silver. One quick glance at his surrounds confirms his suspicions; they're on a beach. It's desolate save for the charcoal grey sand and a wall of black rock dividing the small island in two. 

But most frighteningly, he is aware that they are the sole inhabitants, utterly and completely alone in this foreign place. 

His eyes fall back to River, where she is still lifeless in his arms. There's no one around to help him this time. No Martha or Rory to do his work for him. No way of rushing to the best hospital in the universe and demanding they save her. It's up to him now.

He does the first thing he can think of: he puts his ear to her chest, where he can hear her hearts beating. It's a steady rhythm, but slowed, lethargic. 

She isn't breathing. 

And not because she's holding her breath. This isn't a game. This is life and death and he has to do something. He can't lose her again. He can't he can't he can't! 

One arm still holding her tight to his chest, the other dives for her left boot, where he knows she keeps a small knife tucked away. He's never been more grateful for her weapon happy tendencies than he is in this moment, withdrawing the blade and cutting through her dress to sever the binding on the front of her corset. The ruined material relinquishes its tight hold on her ribs, allowing her lungs to suck in a breath. He casts aside the knife, dropping it to the sand. But she remains unconscious in his arms, shallow breaths barely inflating her lungs. He folds the material back, revealing the white shift beneath. To his shock, there is no blood. The only blemish it holds is the singed hole just above her breasts, where the phaser burst penetrated her dress. The edges around the hole are black, the cloth curling in around itself where it's been scorched. Delicately, he peals the fabric down to examine her skin. The flesh of her sternum is pink and raw where she's been burned, but more worrying are the purple streaks extending out from the wound like tendrils. A spider web of veins snake across her chest and sternum, and embedded in her damaged skin is a tiny dart, a liquid capsule that must have exploded on impact. 

Judging by her slowed heart rate, it's some type of anesthetic. But he can't be sure. Whatever it is, it’s made its way into her bloodstream with alarming speed. Her skin is fevered, hot to the touch as he traces his fingers along the veins marring her chest. If it could have this effect on contact, what would happen if it reaches her hearts? He doesn't want to find out, so he does the only thing he can do. He gingerly plucks the dart from her wound, tucking it into his pocket before pressing his hand softly to her chest, willing his life force into hers. 

It tickles, feathers on his palm in the form of glittering gold. She'd kill him if she knew, but he doesn't care. He's always been selfish when it comes to her. 

Shimmering light radiates from his fingers, a glowing ball of energy joining them. He can feel his time slipping away, dripping from his bones like water from a leaky faucet. Her body welcomes it, greedily absorbing his gift like moisture poured on thirsty ground. It heals her, the purple webs scaring her skin receding inch by inch and the blistered flesh returning to its smooth, golden texture. 

When he's satisfied, the Doctor balls his fist, halting the flow of energy and watching as the last few streaks soak into her skin. The only evidence that remains is a small prick where the dart had pierced and a blush of pink to the surrounding skin. 

He smooths his thumb over the semi raw, burned skin. The flesh still looks a little angry, but it shouldn't scar. River stirs in his arms and he slides his hand up into her curls, supporting her head. Her eyes flutter open, a little dazed as they fix on his face. Recognition sparks inside those sea green orbs and he smiles to see it, one corner of his lip twitching upwards.

She half smiles back, eyes shifting downwards to take in her disheveled appearance and ripped clothing. Arching an eyebrow, her eyes find his again. "Usually my dates buy me dinner first." 

A puff of laughter escapes his lips. "Well, I would have done. But someone had to go and get us shot at." 

River shrugs, sitting up. "A girls gotta get her kicks somehow."

He assists her, removing his hand from its home in her curls to brace her shoulders and help her sit up. The sudden rush of being upright makes River flinch, her hands lifting to rub at her temples. "What happened?"

"You stopped breathing while you were unconscious. Hence the," the Doctor gestures wildly to her chest and tattered dress before clearing his throat and handing her the discarded knife. 

"Good thinking." She says with a smirk, tucking it back into her boot. "What did they hit me with?"

"Some kind of a tranquilizer, I believe."

"A damn strong one judging by this headache. But that would explain why they had no qualms about shooting their own men." River drags a hand across face, wiping at her mouth and nose. When she pulls away a few splashes of red stain her palm.

"Are you hurt?"

"Just a small nosebleed." River offers him a tight lipped smile. "Nothing to worry about." Her eyes fall to the disabled vortex manipulator on her wrist. "First my dress and now this. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?" 

The Doctor scoffs, feigning offense. "I destroyed both in well under five minutes. Give me some credit.”

River directs her attention to her chest, peeling back the fabric to assess the damage. The Doctor’s eyes follow the movement of her fingers as they trace an outline of her wounded sternum, delicately grazing over the pink skin. It’s transfixing, almost as hypnotic as her voice proves to be when she hums, "Imagine what you could do with ten."

He blinks at her like an idiot. _Ten? Ten what? Fingers? No, minutes. Ten minutes, get dressed. Almost the perfect sentence._

Snapping himself out of it, the Doctor finally tears his eyes off her to better asses his environment. The water surrounding the small island seems to go on forever in all directions. It looks like tar, thick and dark and angry as it sloshes to and fro. Even the heavens above don’t look placid or inviting. The sky is a bruise, all purples and blues and greys blended together with fingers of lightening branching out across impossible distances, joining sea and sky. 

"Where are we exactly?" 

“Turbulentis Sphaera.” River announces, making an effort to stand. “Means The Stormy Sphere.”

“Funny name for a planet.” The Doctor adds, helping her to her feet.

“Well, its actual name is XV9ii3 Class 43 Exoplanet.” River gives a small shrugs. “ But my version is catchier.”

“Class 43? I didn’t even know they went that high.”

“They’re rare, useless, really. It’s desolate, mostly oceanic, save for a few scattered islands. The only life is plankton, hence the breathable air. It’s right on the outskirts of the Xenon Quadrant. No one really bothers about it because there’s nothing to mine and it’s not exactly an ideal vacation spot. Speaking of,” River pauses, glancing to the sky. “We should get covered. You won’t want to be outside when the storm sets in.”

The Doctor glances around the flat plains, searching for any sign of shelter. There’s none, not even any trees, just rock and sand and ocean as far as his eyes can see. “Cover where?”

“See those cliffs?” She gestures to the jagged black rocks scaring the small island. “It’s host to a network of caves that will do nicely. And, if luck is on our side, I should be able to convert the residual solar energy into a form we can use. Won’t be as good as rift energy, but it will get the job done until we get back to your ship.” 

He follows River’s lead as she sets off toward the shelter. The sand is pliable, shifting under the weight of his feet as he trudges along. The dry patches squeak against the friction of his shoes and, in the distance, he can hear the low rumbles of thunder. The temperature around them drops, a warning sign before the onset of rain, and a sudden gust of cool wind dances across the water, making it ripple and roll like a living thing.

“What did he mean by _‘he didn't tell you’_?” River’s voice carries like the wind, curious and with a slight chill. “What's Lake Silencio?”

She turns her head to face him, but he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the sand at his feet. “It's the reason you were in prison. The man you killed, that's where it happened. I assumed you read about it when looking into your history. That's why I didn't mention it.”

River nods, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth in thought. “And this is common knowledge?”

“Oh yes. It was a very public trial.”

“But I don't understand. I was pardoned because he didn't exist.” 

“That's what happens when people play with time. It gets all muddled and complicated.”

“So he did exist,” River questions, “In some time stream?

“Some people think so.” He admits as honestly as he can. Facts are fickle things. The truth nothing more than a blurry grey line in a universe that demands for black and white. To some people he is a nightmare, a trickster, a phantom. And to others he is a fairytale, a story told to comfort sleepy children who fear the monsters beneath their bed. 

“Do you think there’s a connection, this man disappearing from history and me losing my memories?”

He’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. But while a corruption in the Library mainframe derived from him deleting himself from history might explain her lapse in memory of him, it fails to answer why she can’t remember her parents, Jim, or any of her childhood.

“No, I don’t.” He says with confidence. “The agent back there seemed more surprised than we were when I asked him about you being rewritten.”

“If that's not what they're doing, then what?”

“I don't know.” The Doctor sighs, exasperated. “I hate not knowing.” His only comfort is the knowledge that whatever they wanted her for, at least they wanted her alive. _"Some things are simple."_ The man's voice echoes in his ears, taunting him. Trouble is, sometimes the simplest things are the hardest to see.

“He mentioned training, too." River adds conversationally, then snorts, her voice taking on a facetious tone. “What kind of training does one require to kill a man that may or may not exist?”

It’s a rhetorical question so he keeps his lips sealed. He wouldn’t have many answers for her anyway. What she could remember of her youth was a black mark on her past that she seldom spoke about to anyone, least of all him, not if she could casually avoid it with a witty remark or flirtatious banter.

As they approach the cliff, the Doctor realizes it isn’t actually a cliff at all. The rock formation is honeycombed with caverns and caves, some not much larger than his hand while others are grand enough to easily accommodate a double decker bus. They enter one of the larger mouths, reaching shelter not a moment too soon. Heavy raindrops have begun to fall, booms of thunder vibrating the very ground beneath their feet. Lightning flashes as _he strolls out of the TARDIS and into her cell. He left the brakes off. She always loved it when he did that. But it's an unnecessary act. Even if she was there to hear it, which she isn't, the sounds of thunder and the pitter patter of rain on windows would have drowned it out. The perpetual storms of the prison planet are angrier than normal, rumbles of thunder rattling the bars of her cell and flashes_ _of lightning illuminating the room, chasing shadows in every corner before plunging back into darkness._

_He doesn't speak. There's no point, really. No one is around to hear it. He can't even explain why he's here. He hadn't meant to type in these coordinates. He didn't want to be here, surrounded by her things, by memories that once brought him joy. He hadn't asked to be reminded that his only glimpses of her now are footprints and shadows. He never asked for any of the wonderful, agonizing things River Song gave him. And yet, here he is. It hardly matters that his numbered days are up, that her nights are occupied and his time with her has finally run out. He needs her now as much as he always has._

_He misses the beginning, when she knew everything and he had all the time. It’s harder at the end, subjecting himself to anything just to get a fix, making due with echoes he won’t speak to and enduring barely there glimpses of his wife just to see her face and be reminded she is real. Getting addicted was so much easier than learning to live without._

_A flash of lightning that has nothing to do with the storm outside fills her cell. The universe must be kind or cruel because River stands before him. Not an echo, the real thing with flesh and beating hearts and so many days left to live. It’s a fluke, a wrinkle in the back to front, a wild card in the deck, and an overwhelming wave of gratitude for the fickle whims of fate washes over him._

_"Sweetie?" She asks and it's all he can do not to crumble at her feet. "What are you doing here?"_

_"Spoilers." He forces the word out of his mouth and River frowns to hear it this late in her timestream. That word belongs to her now. If he's honest, it always has. She wields it so much better than he ever did._

_Her eyes burn across him like hot coals, hunting for the answers he won’t give. They tell as much as they learn though, and he knows this is the first time she's seen him in his purple suit. He knows she knows what that means, that he's older and has so many secrets, that he's seen things that will break her hearts, that he's darker and wearier than he's ever been, that soon he'll be headed to Trenzalore._

_Even as her gaze roams freely across his person, he hasn't taken his eyes off hers. They’re sharp as daggers in their scrutiny, following the edges of his vest, long coat, and slicked back hair like they belong to another man. But when she finally sees fit to look him in the eye again, she relaxes. Her easy smile lingers, warm and soft, brightening the room in a way lightning could never dream to._

_"Are you going to stare at me all day or are you going to tell your wife hello?" Lightning flashes and he's to her before the room can be plunged into darkness once again. He embraces her like a man starved for contact, grateful for the chance to hide his face as he buries himself in her hair,_ _breathing in her unique aroma of honey and dew and freedom. She smells like spring. He immerses himself in it, basking in her purity and using it to save his soul._

_River is less desperate in her embrace, but she holds him just as tight, her cheek pressed into his collar. She blinks slowly, her lashes tickling his throat. "You've been traveling on your own again, haven't you?"_

_"I haven't been alone." He doesn't tell her who he's traveling with and she doesn't ask._

_"Then what's wrong?" She questions instead. There’s such concern in her voice, such honest affection that he’s doomed to answer the truth before he even opens his mouth to speak._

_"I miss you." He confesses, his breath stirring her curls._

_She pulls back to gaze up at him. Her eyes seem both omniscient and surprised by the admission. One of her delicate hands strokes his cheek, fingers tracing down the sharp line of his jaw like the angles could cut her. He leans into the touch, but he doesn’t shut his eyes like he normally would. River notices, eyes instantly saddened by the realization that he’s drinking her in. She’s no stranger to him memorizing her. She knows what that desperation means even is she doesn’t know exactly why._

_"How long has it been for you?"_

_"Too long.” Be it a second, an hour, or a decade, it’s always too long. He tugs her back in, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I can never get enough of you."_

_"That’s because you're an insatiable old man." River coos, snuggling into his chest._

_"Hardly my fault.” He argues, pressing a kiss into her hair. “You're moreish."_

_They chuckle, the thick atmosphere lifting as they breathe each other in. He wonders if he smells the same or if the years without her have finally made him as bitter on the outside as he feels on the inside. A string of lightning flashes and for a moment everything is bright, their joined figures a silhouette on the walls of her cell. Then the light is gone and the world is engulfed in shadow once again. It reminds him that no matter how tight he holds, she is still slipping away._

_The epiphany drags out of him in the form of shaky breath, and it must be yet another language River speaks because she clutches at the fabric of his shirt as she whispers promises into his skin. "I'm right here, darling. I'm not going anywhere."_

_He knows that one day, one terrible day in the future, she won't be. He's losing her. And in so many ways he already has. That knowledge seeps into his bones, making them heavier than they were a moment before._ _He holds her tighter to keep from shaking. His grip must be crushing, but River doesn't break, she endures. She pulls him tighter as they cling to one another in the erratic light, h_ _olding tight to the twilight in which they exist, where it’s not quite night and not quite day, where fleeting colors burn their brightest and moments inevitably slip away._ _He wonders how many times she came searching for a husband only to find a stranger. Did she feel him drifting away as acutely as he feels her now? Outside, the endless storm rages on and he's left to chase after her the way thunder chases lightning, always a little out of sync._

 

He follows half a step behind as River leads him into the cave. Beyond their shelter an ever growing torrent of rain descends from the sky, pounding the sand into clay. But inside these natural walls it's safe and dry. She’s right about the residual energy. Warmth radiates off these rocks in unmistakable heat waves. It’s not an uncomfortable heat, but the relief brought by the cool breeze dies the further they travel into the cave, leaving them with no reprieve from the sticky, saltiness of still sea air. The light dims, too, but it doesn’t disappear. The convex rock walls seem to sparkle with color, reflecting off an unknown light source. Up close he can see that they aren’t jagged at all. They’re smooth as glass, shinning like obsidian.

“Fulgurite glass.” River explains as he runs his hand over the surface. “It’s what happens when lightning fuses with sand. These caves are really just a maze of petrified lightening, footprints after thousands of years of striking in the same place.”

“It’s magnificent.” He says as much to the walls as to River. “But why here?”

When he turns around, he finds River occupied with unclasping her vortex manipulator. “It was the first place that came to mind.”

He glances upwards, still in awe of the structure. If it wasn’t for the soft, mysterious sparkles illuminating the dark room, it would be impossible to tell how high the ceiling was at all. It’s reminiscent of looking into the night sky, a blanket of possibility just out of reach. “Do you come here often?”

“Only as often as I need to.” River answers, but the Doctor can read through her air of nonchalance. _What could she possibly need from this place?_

He spins around, quickly locating her in the dark room, only to find she’s shimmied her green dress off her shoulders, leaving nothing but the shift beneath. “River!” The Doctor squeaks, slapping a hand over his face to cover his eyes. “What are you doing?”

She merely chuckles, a husky sound he’s all too familiar with as she wiggles her hips out of the ruined dress. “At ease, soldier. I’m not going to taint your innocence. Well,” she pauses, and he swears he can _feel_ the suggestive curve of her lips. “Not today, anyway. I’m just stripping out of these useless clothes.”

River sounds more amused than bothered by his presence, so the Doctor peaks through his fingers, lowering his hand just in time to watch as she shoves the mass of dress and petticoats off to the side. The whole outfit is utterly ruined, a messy concoction of singed, torn, and bogged down by sand. His eyes shift helplessly back to her form. All she remains in now is a thin, white shift that clings to her hips in ways that can’t possibly be legal. Her hair has been freed from the confines of the ribbon, falling haphazardly around her shoulders. It’s even more wild than usual, the humidity wreaking havoc on her unruly curls. River doesn’t have time to notice his gawking, already busy with the task at hand as she kneels down to fix their only means of travel.

“Is this place important to you?” The Doctor asks with pensive curiosity.

River frowns at the device in her hand, but he can tell her annoyance is meant for him because she doesn’t spare him a glance as she sharply retorts, “It’s just a place that I go."

"But surely there's reason. Why else would-" He starts, only to be promptly silenced by River.

"I'm a little busy, if you hadn't noticed."

“Right, sorry.” He mutters sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to distract you. I’ve just… I’ve never heard you mention it.”

His words fall flat on the floor, useless, because River offers no further explanations about this mysterious place, her attention fixed solely on fiddling with various settings on her vortex manipulator. He normally loves that look of concentration on her face, her brow pinching inward as she nibbles lightly on her bottom lip. He can predict her movements like clockwork, counting down the seconds between her squint of frustration and the brush of her hand as she pushes a stray curl out of her eyes. But he’s finding it hard to enjoy these particular subtleties. Knowing her so intimately feels like a meaningless facade when he’s standing in one of her best kept secrets.

With a resigned sigh, he sheds his own heavy coat, folding it and placing it on the ground as he takes a seat near her. Silence settles easily between them while she works. Overhead, the storm can still be heard, booms of thunder crashing so loud it resonates in his bones as well as his ears, vibrating in his chest and rattling his very core. He wonders how she came to know this place, what untold adventures brought her here. He imagines different versions of her seeking refuge in these black glassy walls. He can picture her pacing, brain working overtime to solve some puzzle. He can practically hear her shouting away a day’s frustration into the empty air. He even visualizes her curled in on herself, still and quiet, the sea air clinging to her skin and her hair dampened but not quite tamed by heavy drops of rain. He wonders if this is where she disappeared to after Manhattan. He wonders if she sat where they're sitting and cried the tears she never let him see, if the glimmering rocks and distant sounds of thunder comforted her in all the ways he never could.

“I come here to be alone.” River speaks softly, a confession. “I’ve never brought anyone else. That’s why I’ve never mentioned it.” Her eyes haven’t strayed from the manipulator, still dedicated to their task. It’s her voice that’s different, full of quiet secrets, layers of clothing no longer the only armor stripped from her.

"Why bring me then?" He doesn't want to push his luck, but he has to know.  _Why now? Why not before?_

Light from the damaged fuel cell flickers, casting an orange glow against her cheeks. River parts her lips to speak, hesitating as answers pool on the tip of her tongue. In the brief pause, the light on the cell flickers back to red and her face falls once again. “It doesn’t matter.”

Oh but it does, and the Doctor has to fight against a sigh of defeat, his mouth pulling into a tight line and his eyes threatening to shut against the knowledge that she still won’t let him in. He manages to keep the surge of emotions at bay, his voice timid yet encouraging as he prompts. "Tell me."

It’s quiet for a moment, River’s soft eyes remaining fixed to the device in her hand. The Doctor dares to watch her, the low light from the fuel cell casting ghostly hues on the mounds of her cheeks. “I’ve lost a lot.” She finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I wanted to share this with someone. Someone I trust. For safe keeping, in case I lose any more.” She steals a glance at him, and for a moment those green eyes are more open than he’s ever seen them before. They are doors he can run through, windows he can see inside clearly for the first time. But they slam shut just as quickly when River breaks eye contact and returns to her work. “Or,” she sighs, all teasing and bravado. “Maybe I just wanted to see you get sand out of that fancy purple suit."

It’s a small truth disguised with a lie, but it successfully shatters the moment of vulnerability, scattering it to the winds like it never existed at all. Times like these he sees her most clearly, that not even the formidable River Song is entirely fearless. Lies are easy. It’s the truth that’s scary.

He lets the moment pass, tucking it away in the back of his mind as he rests his elbows on his bony knees, eyes fixed on his own hands. “What do you do here, when you come here alone?”

In his peripheral vision, he sees the light on the fuel cell finally turn green. Finished with her work, River sets the device down and turns to watch him, a smirk of intent curling her lips. “The only thing being alone in the dark is good for.” She leans in like the practiced coquette that she is, giving him chills as her silky breath ghosts over the skin of his neck. “I think.” She whispers, and his sober resolve cracks, smirking as he turns his head to face her.

“That’s rubbish. Honestly, Professor, who knew you were so boring?”

River gives a good-natured laugh, leaning back into her own space. “Well, unless you have a deck of cards stashed in that tight suit of yours, our options are limited.”

Truth be told, he probably does have cards or a tennis racket or something hidden away in his coat pockets, but, “I had something a little more exciting in mind.”

“Oh?” River coos. “And what might that be?”

“Well, it requires a bit of touching and it can be quite exhausting,” The Doctor purposefully invades her space, his eyes as heavy and serious as his voice. “But in my opinion, it’s the best way two people can pass the time alone in the dark together.” The answer to his riddle dangles between them, his nose mere inches from hers. River holds her breath at the intrusion, but doesn’t lean away. “Dancing.” He grins, and the word is too loud for the dark room, too upbeat for such intimate settings. But River doesn’t falter, giving a breathless laugh as he jumps to his feet.

“There’s no music.” She challenges.

“Don’t worry. I have an app for that.” He reaches for his jacket, digging through the pocket for his sonic. These caves should provide excellent acoustics and he knows just the song to bathe them in. He begins tuning his screwdriver to the right frequency, and he almost has it when a high pitched crackle of static fills the air. With a cringe, he quickly tweaks the settings until the infinitely more pleasant sound of Stevie Wonder's 'Isn't She Lovely' fills the air. Satisfied, he sets the tool down on his jacket and turns with a flourish. 

River watches his antics from where she sits, her arms folded across her lap, waiting. “Aren’t you just, Mr. Smooth.”

“Nope, though I was Mr. Clever once. Well, not me, technically. Long story. Anyway, where were we?” He holds his hand out, stalking towards her with a dipped head and a smirk.

River takes his hand, letting him pull her up. His other arm snakes around her waist, finding the dip in the small of her back and pulling her into him. She slots against his body perfectly and he wastes no time in expertly guiding her around the open space.

“My, my, my." River purrs. "You really are just full of surprises.”

He half preens at the praise before admitting, “I can’t take all the credit. I had lessons from the best.”

“Fred Astaire?” 

“No, but I did do a duet with him at a dinner party once.” The tempo picks up and he spins her out and then back in again, her back pressing to his chest. 

“Then who?" River cranes her neck to look up at him and he smiles down at her. When she’s this close, looking into her eyes is _like gazing into the vortex, all storms and mystery and streaks of blue carving their way through clouds of solid green._ _It’s very distracting, and he keeps stepping on her feet. He is stiff and awkward where she is grace and finesse._

_“Who taught you how to dance like this?” He asks, and River’s smile answers his question before she ever parts her lips._

_“Who do you think?”_

_He feels the blush creeping up his cheeks, his body impossibly more rigid. Suddenly she’s too close, too warm, too tangible. River must sense his panic because she pulls away, gracefully realigning them in a less intimate position._ _The Doctor clears his throat. “Isn’t that a spoiler?”_

_“Only a small one.” She shrugs. “You’re quite good on your feet when you put your mind to it.”_

_At the moment, he’s inclined to disagree. His uncooperative legs keep forgetting the steps and his arms hover a respectable distance above her waist. Meanwhile, she hasn’t missed a beat, her arms draped lazily over his shoulders. She’s comfortable, like they’ve done this a thousand times before. He doesn't doubt that they have._

_But he's never been this close to her for this long. He can see the flecks of gold around her irises, shades of yellows and blues orbiting her pupils like the black holes they are. He looks away so he doesn't get pulled in too. Swallowing against a dry throat as he says, "I've never done this before. Not this face anyway." He’s not really sure if he means slow dancing or that feeling inside him that ignites when she’s around. But, as usual, he doesn’t have to explain his muddled mind to River._

_"I know." She confesses, her smile as wistful as the secrets sparkling behind her eyes. "There's a first time for everything."_

_He wonders if this is why she doesn’t, and didn't, dance with him the last time he saw her, at Amy and Rory’s wedding. She knew he didn't know how; she hadn't taught him yet. Her words hang between them, the concept of firsts fluttering through his mind like dandelions on the breeze. One of her palms smooths over his shoulder, and for a moment, he wonders what it would feel like if her head rested there, her lips brushing his collar bone and her hair tickling his cheek. He quickly banishes the thought._ _“Is it that obvious?"_

_He expects a mischievous smile or flirty response that she usually resorts to, but she doesn’t. She reassures him, "You’re doing better than you think. But here," she guides his hands with her own, lowering them to her hips. The movement brings their bodies even closer, chests brushing and hips aligned. He swallows again, alarmed by how comfortable he is with his hands on her body. A thought that instantly makes him uncomfortable again. "Better?" She asks. Puffs of her breath mingle with his own and he’s left with no choice but to nod wordlessly._

_She's weightless in his arms, gliding across the glass floor. He thinks that maybe all that leaping off things wasn’t her jumping at all. Maybe he hasn't been catching her. Maybe, all along, she's been flying._

_"You're thinking too much." River chides him. "Just relax and let your feet do the moving."_

_"It would be easier if there was music." He counters, but River merely tuts._

_“I'm not sure you're ready to keep a rhythm. You can hardly keep time."_

_“I’m a **Time** Lord.”_

_“Yes, a perpetually late one.” She looks up at him with a lingering smirk before giving in and deciding to show mercy._

_When she pulls away, he feels suddenly colder at the loss, watching as she leans over the console to press a button. “Pick a good one, eh?”_

_River hums, and he can feel her knowing smile as warm and acute as one can the summer sun. “I know just the song.” She turns to him with soft, nostalgic eyes; and, with the flip of a switch, ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ fills the air._

 

 **“** You taught me.” He breathes, spinning her out and back in again.

She folds back into his arms seamlessly, her surprised smile warm and teasing. “My greatest achievement yet, it seems.”

Tightening his hold on her back, he dips her slowly, holding the pose a fraction longer than necessary. “Undoubtedly.” He admits. River’s nails scratch absent mindedly at the nape of his neck, but her grip doesn’t tighten. She trusts him not to drop her. He doesn’t disappoint, bringing her back up gracefully and slipping into a smooth, slow rhythm. “So, of all the places, why come here? It’s a bit dreary isn’t it?”

River shrugs, fingers still toying with the collar of his shirt. “I like the stories the weather tells.”

He must look as lost as he feels because River takes pity on him, explaining what his hazy brain can’t figure out.

"Not all storms sound the same." She tells him. "There are angry storms, where the sky is fierce and black, streaked with white lightening so powerful you can feel the static charge crawl across your skin, where wind howls and thunder cracks so hard it feels like it’s inside you as well as around you, where the water is at war with the sky and giant swells reach up before curling back in on themselves. And sometimes storms are slow and grey, just trickles of rain accompanied by the threat of low, rumbling thunder. The waves don’t splash; they sway, rhythmic and longing.”

The Doctor nods, his thumb smoothing over the small of her back. “I suppose it’s nice to take solace in the knowledge that no matter what a storm holds, above the clouds, the sun still shines as bright as ever.”

But he must have missed the point because River gives a soft shake of her head. “I don’t come here for the storms.” Her eyes focus on something just beyond his shoulder, and he finds himself lost in her words, so enraptured he’s given up his fancy footwork. They’re practically still now, gently swaying back and forth as he stares down into her eyes. “I come here to see what’s left behind after they pass, when everything looks cleaner and brighter in its wake.”

"And what will this storm leave behind?" He breathes, a prisoner to the sound of her voice.

River stares back at him with the same intensity, swallowing lightly before she answers, "I won't know until it passes."

Somewhere amid the swaying and talking, the space between them has dwindled. The air between them remains thicker and heavier than ever, her breath ghosting across his mouth, sweet and warm. It feels like they’re talking about more than just the storm outside, like there is something between them, something more than sound waves and sea air.

"But if I had to guess," she says, tongue snaking out to moisten her lips. "I’d say it could be something beautiful.” The hand she rests on his shoulder slips down, smoothing across his chest. The Doctor swallows, and River’s eyes track his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat. He can’t take his eyes off her, watching with baited breath as the corners of her lips curl into a smile and the hand on his chest reaches up to straighten his bow tie.

“Why did you do that?” He asks, the last of his stored breath rushing past his lips in a hushed voice.

They’re barely dancing at all now, movements stilled as her eyes flick away from the silk and up to meet his. Her expression is indecipherable, her tone even as she says, “It was crooked. Would you rather I didn’-”

“No,” he interrupts quickly. “No. It’s not that. I just….” He exhales, smiling. “Nothing. It’s perfect, now. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” River smiles up at him as a flash of lightning illuminates the room, dancing its way over the shimmering rock. But the thunder that follows is off in the distance now, reduced to only a dull roar; and it seems the storm has passed as quickly as it came. “It’s probably charged now, don’t you think?” River’s enigmatic eyes sparkle up at him as she starts to pull away. He lets her go, watching as she floats back to the other side of the cave. Every step she takes is like a hole in his chest, but he shakes his head against the sensation, marching over to gather his coat and screwdriver, the sound of music replaced by crippling silence as he cuts off the sonic.

Pasting a casual smile on his face, he clears his throat and comes to stand by her side. “Well?” He asks just a bit too brightly as he peaks over her shoulder. 

“It’s not perfect.” She admits, strapping the device to her wrist. “But it’s as good as it’s going to get.”

The bars of the fuel cell are only half full, and it glows a teal sort of color he’s sure he’s never seen before on a device like this, but he doesn’t question it. River’s always been a master of technology, able to bend even the most stubborn of obstacles to her will, himself included. Once it’s securely strapped to her wrist, River begins typing in coordinates for London, 1814, dropping them not far from where he’d parked the TARDIS.

The Doctor’s hand reaches out, covering hers and stilling her movements. “My ship.”

River looks up at him in concern. “What? You think she’s moved?”

“No, well, maybe.” He says. River looks concerned but makes no complaints as he gently turns her to face him, taking her wrist in his hand and typing in a different set of coordinates. “If we’ve only got one shot at this, I don’t want to chance another run in or risk getting stranded in Regency era London, _especially_ with you dressed like that. I want to get as close as possible.”

“How close?”

“Inside the console room, close. She’s transdimensional, hence how the bigger on the inside is possible. She’s essentially her own pocket universe. Where her exterior is located is irrelevant as long as you get the inside coordinates right, which is a bit tricky, especially if she’s in the vortex, but not impossible.”

“And these coordinates will put us back in your ship?” River arches an eyebrow. She doesn’t sound convinced.

“In theory.” The Doctor mutters back and River’s eyebrows nearly shoot off her forehead.

“And in practice?” Definitely not convinced, then.

But the Doctor simply grins at her as he types in the last of the coordinates. “I suppose we’ll find out.” His finger hovers over the activation button, waiting for River’s permission. She gives it, as she always does, in the form of a slow spreading smile. “Geronimo.” He declares, and presses the button.

For the second time in a matter of hours, he feels the fabric of time shred and tear around him, melting away only to be replaced by somewhere, somewhen else. Convex walls have morphed into stairwells and metal floors. The rumble of thunder replaced by the hum of his ship, Gallifreyan writing and little round things decorate the walls instead of sparkles of light on black rocks, and silver sunlight has been replaced by comforting blue hues from the TARDIS console.

“Not bad, eh?” He doesn’t let go of her wrist and River doesn’t try to pull away.

She gives a blasé shrug, but the curl of her lips tell a different story. “I’ve had worse dates.”

“I’ve never had better.” It comes out just a bit too earnest and he feels he should say something else, anything else. But he falters, lost in the enigma before him. There’s a gleam in her eyes, a shift in color, a flash of an emotion he can’t quite place. He wants to save it, dissect it until he discovers what it means, this splash of adrenaline that could mean worry or excitement or fear. Or maybe it means something else altogether, and fueled by curiosity, his lips part with the hope that his tongue will know what to say.

But it doesn’t. He says nothing, and as the moments tick by, they take with them the opportunity.

“I should go get cleaned up.” River speaks first, gently retracting her arm.

“Of course.” He nods, relinquishing his hold, letting her slip out of his grasp yet again. She turns to leave and the sight of her retreating form makes something inside him snap. “River, wait!” He blurts, brain kicking into gear as he scrambles to find words.

River stops, turning back to face him, waiting. “Yes?”

“I was thinking,” he dares to take a step toward her, basking in the drug that is her presence. “You took me somewhere that meant something to you. And well, there’s somewhere I’d like to take you, too.”

“Oh?” She mirrors his movement, taking half a step forward.

“River Song,” he inhales a deep breath through his nose. It smells like time and River and hope. “How would you like to see the Singing Towers?"


	12. Keep Your Head Up. Keep Your Heart Strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was running rampant so I had to cut it. So if the end seems a little awkward, that's why. That being said, I have two flashbacks that I cut (one with young River and one with 10). I can post them as one shots if anyone's interested?
> 
> And last but not least, [almbookbuyer](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2816965/almbookbuyer) drew another [amazing picture](https://www.facebook.com/amandamccoyart/photos/a.811455318934208.1073741828.811430285603378/877046125708460/?type=1&theater) for the last chapter. 

“Singing with love and the will to trust. Leave the rest behind, it will turn to dust.” – The Walin' Jennys 

* * *

 

It’s nothing like the last time. They aren't alone, listening to the towers sing from a distance, the only other sound their hearts beating in tandem. There’s more than just their quiet thoughts and whispered affections filling the air between them. He isn't blinking back tears and River isn't watching him like he's fragile glass. Pieces of his porcelain hearts aren't cracking and scattering to the winds with every minute that passes. 

There is no top hat, no tails, no figure hugging green dress, _all that emotion buried beneath layer upon layer of fancy clothes, and yet he still feels naked, exposed, like she'll see straight through him as she always has. He’s standing in front of her door, wearing his new haircut and a suit like armor. The semblance of normalcy is tied off with an overly enthusiastic smile and a skip in his step he hopes she'll believe. The facade is his cloak, shielding his emotions from her ever perceptive eyes._

_All he can think of is that day so long ago and looming in her future. The day she laid his future at his feet, when she did more than just strip him of his title. She rendered him bare, removing the guise of Doctor so thoroughly that, for a moment, even he forgot to pretend. He knew then that she would be more than a companion. The look in her eyes told him she wasn't another doe eyed girl; she was a woman with her own shadows and sins, who was just as likely to burn him as embrace him._

_And burn him she did, in ways no one else ever could, a cleansing fire that healed as much as it hurt. She raged through his insides, scorching him like wildfire. She branded her name on his hearts with such vicious finality that he swears the battered muscles beat out her name, scattering pieces of her throughout his body as the blood pumps through his veins._

_With one last long exhale, he straightens his bow tie, a final touch before the mask is sealed into place and he is forced to find the strength to start his final night with her. He knocks, his cane rasping against the wooden door, and he shakes off the feeling that he is Death, come to carry his lover to her grave._

_There’s a shuffle of feet on carpeted floors and a soft click of a deadbolt. He has just enough time to steel the charade with a smile before the door eases open to reveal River. She’s wrapped in a silk robe, her strawberry blond hair framing her face. She half smiles in surprise at the sight of him, her eyes dropping instantly to give his body a once over. He fights the urge to shift under the scrutiny, and he watches with baited breath as River’s eyes narrow and arms fold across her chest._

_“What did you do?" Her voice is all accusation and no mercy. The shock of it makes his charming smile drop like a lead weight._

_"Nothing!" He gapes at her, perhaps a little too defensive._

_"You're in your top hat." River states in a flat voice, looking at him like she’s just explained everything._

_The Doctor is left to blink at her, feeling like an utter idiot as he stands outside her door. “And?”_

_"You always wear a suit when you're apologizing.” River shifts her weight, one hand propping on her hip. “You've upset some other version of me, haven't you?”_

_“I haven't!” He argues back with wide eyes and no small amount of flailing. River’s eyes narrow further in response, and he stills his spastic arms. “I promise I haven't. Can I just…” He exhales a defeated little noise. “Can I please come in?"_

_Her eyes roam over him once more before she turns away, leaving him to let himself in. He steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him. River’s already half way to the kitchen, preemptively annoyed on her future self’s behalf._

_"I don't only wear a suit when I apologize." He grumbles as he dutifully follows after._

_"No, but you always wear one when you **are** apologizing.” River states, heading straight for the kettle and filling it with water. “So when are you?"_

_“Dinner on, well, almost dinner on the planet of the Rain Gods.” He takes a seat at her kitchen table, pretending not to notice how she brightens, the confirmation that he’s so late in his timestream making her smile. It's recent history for her and his chest tightens in response, still clinging to the false hope that his days with her aren't wearing thin._

_“That was just last month for me.” She says, setting the kettle on the stove and turning back to face him with a teasing smile. “Maybe you’re finally getting the hang of the whole linear time travel thing, sweetie.”_

_“Have you done our date on Asgard yet?” He asks purely to keep up pretense._

_River grins back at him. “So it was a date? Pretty Boy sure didn’t think so.”_

_The Doctor scoffs, “He’s an idiot.”_

_“He's you.”_

_“Yeah, he's an idiot.”_

_River laughs as she turns back to the boiling water.  “Only I get to call my husband that.” She sets about making their tea, perfect as always. She serves it to him in a lime green cup decorated with dancing chili peppers in cowboy hats. It’s a ridiculous mug and there’s a chip on the rim, but it’s his favorite and no matter when he comes here, she always has it clean and waiting for him. He doesn’t think he’ll come back for it after tonight._

_"So,” River takes a seat across from him, wrapping both hands around her own warm drink. “What did you do to upset me, hm? Give a girl some warning.  How bad will it be?"_

_He doesn’t really feel like drinking tea. His nerves are too high strung as it is. But River would notice if he didn’t, so he forces his fingers to wrap around the familiar cup, lifting it to his lips where he takes a slow sip of the hot liquid. It burns as it flows down his throat, but the warmth translates to his words as he sets the cup down and looks directly at River. “Why are you so sure I don't just want the pleasure of your company?"_

_Her eyebrow raises at him in challenge and when she sits forward, setting her cup down with a gentle thud, he feels like one of her students about to be lectured._ _”Berlin.” She declares and he has the distinct feeling he’s not going to like where this conversation is going. "You let me kiss you knowing how dangerous I was.”_

_"You'd just regenerated!” He interrupts. “All saucy and sexy and smelling of time. I was a little distracted."_

_"You were dying and you knew what I’d have to do. So you put on a fancy suit and a show, trying to fix the cockamamie first meeting you let that turn into.”_

_“River-“_

_"That's not the only time, either. You ruined my date in University, the one with the New New Latvian Prince. We were going to dance in front of the High Council until you showed up and distracted everyone with your Mc Hammer impression.”_

_The Doctor looks smug about that one, making no arguments. "Heh, Yeah,” At her unflinching stare, he shakes the smug smile away. “But then I took you dancing on the Rings of Orion to make up for it.”_

_“Yes. You did. In a suit.” He swallows, about to protest but River forges ahead. “And the first night I was in prison. You softened the blow by taking me to Calderon Beta. Not that I'm not grateful, sweetie. I just know you.” It’s her turn to look smug now, finishing off the last of her drink and getting to her feet. “You always get dressed up like this when you’re paying penance."_

_She takes their cups, hers empty and his hardly touched, and places them in the sink. He simply blinks at her, finally comprehending the point she’s trying to make. "You think I took you to Calderon Beta as a consolation prize?” He feels like he’s been punched in the gut and he must sound that way, too, because River turns back to look at him with apologetic eyes._

_“Sweetie, it’s fine, really. I-“_

_He jumps to his feet, the urgency of it almost sending the chair over backwards, but he doesn’t care. All this time she thought… and he can’t let go to… not without…“River, I took you there because I wanted you to know that the universe wasn’t the only thing worth saving on that pyramid. I took you because I couldn't imagine ever going with anyone else, because no silly prophecies or prison bars can keep up apart.”_

_River watches him with an intensity that rivals his own. But there’s tenderness behind her bravado. For a woman who knows him so well and sees so much, she never seems to comprehend just how important she is to him, just how much he loves her._

_The Doctor steps toward her, voice softening. “You've got it all wrong. I crashed your date and took you somewhere better because I wanted to be the only one to parade you around the dance floor. And Berlin, well it might have been the last time I saw you. I had to go out with a bang. I had to try and woo you at first opportunity.” He sighs, huffing out a self-deprecating laugh as he peeks at her through his fringe. “I wanted to make an impression, to set the bar as high as you always have.”_

_River looks away, almost bashful, and he steps even closer to her._

_"I take you to these places and dress this way because I-" her eyes snap up to meet his and he can't quite force the word he wants to say out of his lips. "I would do anything for you."_

_She smiles like she knows what he wants to say, like his mediocre confession is enough even though he knows it isn't._

_"I don't regret a moment of this and I don't want you to either.” He finally closes the distance, his hands smoothing over her shoulders and his head dipping so he can capture her eyes with his own. They’re glistening, the brightest green he’s ever seen, and he thinks that if this is the last night he’ll ever see those eyes sparkle, at least the unshed tears are happy ones.  "All this, this isn't apologizing." He confesses, hands finding their way to her hips, pinning her to the counter. "This is me making sure you know that this is worth it, that **we’re** worth it.” River’s arms wrap around his middle, pulling him into her. The Doctor folds against her gladly, placing a kiss to her temple. “This is me trying to impress you.”_

 

He looks like an idiot. No, that's too generous. He looks like a complete and total idiot, the king of idiots. If Amy could see him now she would have a field day making fun of him. River insisted that if they were going to go, they needed to dress to fit in, which for some reason meant he had to dress like an idiot and she got to look perfectly normal. River looks completely at ease in the heat, her shorts, sage green tank top, and pulled back hair reminiscent of something she’d wear on an archaeological excavation. He, on the other hand, looks completely out of place in the torture devices known as flip flops strapped to his feet. Thanks to them, he’s spent half the day tripping over his own ‘pasty Bambi limbs’, as River called them. And to make matters worse, he’s in cargo pants. Eights pockets and not a single one of them is bigger on the inside. The only saving grace of the outfit is the Hawaiian shirt, and though it’s tacky and its baggy nature swallows his scrawny body whole, at least he’d been able to sneak a pair of his suspenders on underneath.

So yes, he looks ridiculous. But he never has been any good at denying her. Not even when it comes to Darillium, which, as it turns out is quite the tourist trap. All day they’ve been surrounded by families with fanny packs and dads wearing high socks and sandals, trying to make sense of overly colorful maps. From funnel cake to rollercoasters to silly souvenirs, this place is like Disney World on steroids.  

River even let him buy a funny hat. It’s bright yellow and adorned with Darillium themed buttons. It even sings. It’s a singing, yellow, button hat! And apart from a few threatening glares, River hasn't even wished ill will upon it yet. He rests easy knowing she won’t shoot this one off his head as they didn't allow guns in the theme park. Not that that would have stopped her if she'd wanted to bring one. He's not entirely convinced she didn't bring one, if he's honest. But he doesn't know where she'd be keeping it. For the sake of his own good, he tries not to let his thoughts dwell too long on the treasures that lie beneath her tank top and shorts. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes focused on the glass bottom gondola they’re currently riding in on their way to the observation deck.The view is spectacular. From this height, there is a clear view of Darillium. The sun has started its decent behind the hills and scattered mountains of all shapes and sizes pierce the sky for miles in all directions. But the main attraction is directly beside them. The two tallest towers stand relatively near one another and in the valley between lies the theme park. As they ascend the eastern most tower, the festivities of the park are left behind. People in glowing hats and children with light up toys have turned to a blurry sea, carnival rides reduced to specks in the growing distance. It’s already lovely, and the best is still yet to come.

So, in spite of the funny clothes, the long lines, and the heat, he can’t bring himself to regret coming to this planet again. He’s seen more smiles on her face than he can remember in heaven knows how long. It’s everything he couldn’t give her last time. He wouldn't have been able to stomach this before. The crowd, the smiling faces, the happiness. Sharing her. No, he’d been selfish last time, wanting her all to himself with no distractions. And, if he's honest, he wanted her undivided attention. He didn't want to share her on their last day. He hadn't wanted goodbye to be long lines and gift shops. He wanted it to be quiet, peaceful, perfect. One last night of romance to sustain him in the eons of loneliness that lay ahead. 

But he's been given a second chance, a real and completely improbable one. It's more than he deserves, but maybe this isn't about him and what he deserves. Maybe this time he can finally give her what she deserves. That’s why he brought her here. He's giving her Darillium the way she always wanted. Sure, one day, if and when she gets her memory back, they could come here again. But it would always be tainted by the memory of that first time, by the bitter taste of goodbye. In a way, her lack of memory is a gift, one that allows him to give her The Singing Towers without the plague of sadness. No tears, no screw drivers, just him and her and music and lights. 

They reach the top and as they exit the gondola, they’re each handed a complimentary pair of goggles that will allow them to view the sound waves that resonate from the towers, turning their music into a light show.  It’s a massive deck, spacious even considering the thousand occupants already onboard.  Therefore, the two of them drift along easily with the crowd, all filing in as they wait for the next light show to begin. River seems just as eager as the rest of the patrons, already steering them towards a front row spot by the railing.

The Doctor has something else is mind before they settle in to watch the show, and as his eyes search the crowd, they find their prize. He stops short. “Why don’t you go grab us a spot up front and I’ll meet you there, yeah?”

River stalls, looking at him dubiously. “Can you be trusted on your own?”

“Definitely not, but that’s never stopped me before.” He grins.

River contemplates for half a second before shrugging. “Okay, but try not to burn anything down.”

The Doctor salutes, and River turns to continue making her way toward the railing. When she’s nearly out of sight, he spins around, rubbing his hands together as he eagerly makes his way toward an ice cream vendor. The girl behind the counter smiles at him as he approaches. She has bright pink hair and skin to match, but her smiles is as white and as wide as a Cheshire cat.

“Hello!” The Doctor announces brightly as he examines the menu. “Two cones please: one chocolate suicide with extra sprinkles and one Peach sorbet.”

“Six credits.” His fuchsia friend announces as she fetches his order.

“Blimey.” The Doctor mutters and she offers him a sympathetic shrug. He begins digging in his pocket, pulling out a handful of credits to pay. As he hands it over, he pauses, nodding to a bag of gummy sweets on display. "How much for those?"

“Two credits." She answers and the Doctor digs through his pocket once again, handing over the last of his currency. She passes him his sweets with a smile and a generic wish that he have a nice day. The Doctor returns the gesture, accepting the cones of ice cream and the bag of sweets before weaving his way through the crowd once again. It's thick with people now, all kinds of species packed together to see the fantastic light and music show.

As he nears the front, he spots River through the fog of tourists, her elbows resting against the railing as she gazes out into the distance. The dusky twilight paints her cheeks a coral color and the wind rustles her curls in ripples and waves. She is unique in all the universe, the ocean that dared to stand upon mountain tops, the fish that took to the skies despite being destined for the sea. He finds himself wondering if other people see her the way he does. Do they see endless strength and heart and possibility? Does she awaken the child within them, the one who loves the darkness but fears the unknown, who is fascinated by fire even when burned by its touch and blinded by its light?

The ice cream in his hand has begun to melt, sticky and cold as it drips onto his fingers. He quickens his pace, easing up next to her in the crowd. "Here we are." He announces, and River turns to face him, slightly surprised by his presence as if he’d awoken her from a day dream. "One peach sorbet. And," he holds up the sweets triumphantly. "I got you these little beauties, too."

River hums, pleased as she accepts the treats. "I'd tell you that's my favorite flavor, but I'm guessing you already knew that."

He shrugs, answering humbly, "Lucky guess."

"The way I take my tea, my favorite breakfast, and now my taste in ice cream. That's a lot of lucky guesses."

He buys himself a moment, licking at the ice cream melting down the cone. "I'm a really lucky man."

The corners of her lips threaten a smirk, but she chooses to accept his answer, looking back out over the canyon that separates the two mountains. It won't be long now before the towers begin their melody, the two larger ones providing the main tune while the small ones emit a chorus of equally moving music. As much as he dreaded it the first time, he finds himself glad of the opportunity now. He never knew how much he longed for a moment like this, a reality in which they could be here, sharing this, that it would mean hope for a beginning rather than a harbinger of the end. 

"This is incredibly irresponsible, you know." River says, nibbling at her cone.

"What is? Ice cream?"

She shakes her head, jostling her curls. "Being here. We should be looking for those men. Who knows what they're doing to time."

"You should always waste time when you don't have any. Time is not the boss of you."

River snorts, but keeps her eyes forward. "Says the man who hasn't lost half his life."

He sobers then, tight lips pulling into a frown. She's right. He's hasn't lost his memory, but he has lost something equally as precious. They both have. "We'll find them. I promise."

River turns to him with a dim smile, one that says she isn't so sure. But he knows better. She is proof that miracles exist. He knows that anything lost can be remembered. And though he doesn't know quite how, he knows they'll find a way. _You're going to have to walk like you can see._

River turns her attention forward and he does the same, occasionally stealing glances of her out of the corner of his eye. They remain this way, standing in comfortable silence as they both munch on the last few bits of their ice cream cones. The Doctor is just shoving the last bite into his mouth when an announcement comes over the speaker, alerting everyone that it's time to put on their glasses.

The Doctor does so eagerly, sliding the dark, hexagonal shaped lenses on before turning towards River. "How do I look?" He beams.

Sliding on her own pair, she turns her eyes on him, giving a snort of laughter. "Ridiculous."

"And you look wonderful." He smiles down at her and she smiles back.

"Right on schedule then."

She’s still smirking up at him when the first notes begin humming out of the mountainside. It’s smooth and sharp, earthy and warm, like a violin played by Mother Nature. An orchestra of colors follow the sound waves, radiating off the rocks like fireworks in tune to the rhythm of the planet, spinning and singing and hurdling through an infinite universe. 

The entire crowd stares on in silent awe, captivated by the natural occurring phenomenon. The Towers sing every 194 minutes, but at dusk, right here, right now, is when the colors are the best. People flock from all over to hear and see the spectacle. It’s like Disney World if at the end of the night the Magic Kingdom castle exploded into a symphony of sound and color. 

He only tears his eyes away from the sight when he feels the press of River as she gravitates into his side. She hasn’t taken her eyes off the spectacle before them, but her chin is tilted in his direction as she whispers, "Want to get a better view?"

"Where?" He whispers back. As far as he knew, this was the only observation deck on the eastern tower.

River just grins, lacing her fingers in his and taking a small step back. "Follow me."

He doesn’t have to see her eyes to know there’s mischief lurking behind them, his pulse quickening as she leads him through the crowd. No one notices their departure, too focused on the light display. The crowd thins as they weave their way towards the back, but it’s not until they round a corner and pass a sign that reads ‘Employee Area Only’ that suspicion pricks at the back of his mind. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." She chimes, leading him around another corner and stopping in front of a discreet grey door. She drops his hand, propping her glasses on top her head and digging a small pin out from the depths of her curls.

“I don’t think this part of the park is on offer.” He says, scanning their surroundings.

River merely smirks, leaning over to pick the lock. “Says who?”

"The ‘Keep Out’ signs."

"Are you going to let that stop you?” Her eyes flick up to his and he grins down at her.

"Not a chance.”

Under her talented fingers, the lock gives way and River tucks the pin back in her hair, turning to face him with a wicked little smile. “So the man beneath the bow tie isn't as harmless as he looks.”

“On the contrary,” the corner of his lip curls into a crooked smile as he takes half a step forward. “I can be quite dangerous.” 

There’s a challenge in her eyes that's just begging to be met as she pushes the door behind her open. “Prove it.”  

“With pleasure.” The Doctor extends a hand to her, and when she takes it, they step over the threshold and begin ascending a skinny metal stairwell. They follow the signs for the roof, and a few flights later, they come to a heavy metal door. Pushing it open, they find the view of a lifetime. The building has been built half into the mountain side, the tin roof intersecting with smooth granite. It’s a little windy up here, but the music is richer than ever this close to the stone. They take a seat, and as they press their backs against the granite, the vibrations hum against their skin. It’s much more spacious up here on the roof, leaving them to lounge lazily across the warm, slightly sun baked surface.

River settles in beside him, her glasses concealing her eyes once more as they watch the Towers paint the sky, singing in baritones of blue and soft pink sopranos. Keys of greens, yellows, oranges, violets and every color in between swirl and dance like lovers in the sky. 

"I always wanted to come here." River speaks softly and he turns to face her, drawn by the sound of her voice. "I wonder why I never did."

Her profile is sharp, pulses of lavender humming off the rock and bouncing off the contours of her cheek and jaw. "Was it worth the wait?"

She turns to face him and he can just barely make out the shape of her eyes behind the dark lenses covering them. "The nights not over yet.” She smirks and then looks away. "What about you? Have you been here before?"

"Never quite like this." He admits, eyes shifting to his lap.

"You said it was special to you. Why's that?"

"It's a theme park. Practically Disney World, you know, without the giant mice monoliths. It's special to everyone.” She snorts at his answer, but doesn’t press him. And maybe that’s why he feels the urge to speak again, to let the truth, or the sentiment behind it at least, crawl its way up his throat. “Besides,” he exhales. “Sometimes it's just as important to make new memories as it is to remember old ones."

Her face is forward but he can tell she isn't really watching the light show anymore, far too lost in her own thoughts. "Do you think I should accept it?"

He leans forward, removing his glasses so he can see her properly. The lavender hues framing her and the rainbows in the sky vanish like someone turned off a light. River is the only thing in his line of sight and his eyes find themselves glad to be rid of the distractions. "No, not that, never that. But," He stalls and River’s eyes finally find his again. "If we can't... If it's not reversible... Well, I'm here for you. Always. No matter what." She is his future even if they don’t have a past.

River says nothing, but her jaw is relaxed and her mouth is slightly agape. He finds himself tracing the lines of those semi parted pink lips with his eyes, wishing she'd let him be privy to all the thoughts she doesn't speak, the ones that pool, heavy and unsaid on the tip of her tongue.

But River remains silent, watching him for a long moment through the hazy protection of her glasses. It’s always one shield or another, always a secret to keep or damage to be hidden. Just once, he wishes she would look at him with everything he knows is inside her. Not just her love and adoration, but her sadness and her regret, her anger and her fear. He wants it all, every ounce, every flickering emotion and memory that make up her years. He wants the beautiful, flawed blemishes on her skin, the weary bones beneath, and atoms within them. He wants the energy that constitutes her soul, that cascades out of her in waves and renders him her slave. Just once, he wishes she would look at him with all of it, pour it over him like liquid gold.  To behold it once, to bask in everything she is, is all he would need to forever feel like a king. 

Finally she lifts a hand, removing the glasses and revealing sea green eyes that are fixed on him. "That's an awfully big promise to make to a girl."

"I know she's worth it." He answers easily, and she huffs out a hollow laugh.

"And I hardly know you at all."

The Doctor leans back against the rock, arms as open and inviting as his voice, "What would you like to know?"

River stares at him a moment, seemingly at a loss for words. He waits patiently, hands folded across his lap as she deliberates. Her intense study of him only relents when she lets out a sigh and asks her first question, "What's your middle name?"

"Bad Penny." He rebuttals without pause and she laughs openly.

"You're lying."

"Yeah I am. But only because I know you don't really care about that."

"Oh really?" River quirks an amused brow.

"You know that you trust me. That's all that matters."

_But you don't always tell me the truth._

_If I always told you the truth, I wouldn't need you to trust me._

"Still not sure why.” River sighs, shaking her head softly.

The Doctor simply shrugs, “Must be my charm and boyish good looks.”

“And so humble.”

“I don't like to brag, but I have pretty good dress sense, too.”

“Apart from that abomination on your head you're trying to pass off as a hat.” 

“Oi!” The Doctor squeaks. “This is a great hat!”

“Honey, I've seen Sycorax with more fashionable headgear.” 

Thoroughly offended, he stiffens his back, reaching up to smooth the lapels of his coat only to remember it’s been replaced by a tacky Hawaiian shirt. “What do you know, River song? You're the one who talked me into wearing this ridiculous outfit.”

“That had nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with my own amusement.” She doesn’t even try to hide her mocking gaze and he is left to gape openly at her.

“Oh, right, well in that case I think you should have to wear the hat as punishment for making me walk in these torture devices all day."

"In your dreams, sweetie.”

“Alright, I'll settle for the rest of your candy.”

River gives a derisive snort by way of response, and the Doctor leans forward, adopting a stern voice.

“Now River, don't make me take it by force.”

“You wouldn't dare.” She narrows her eyes at him, sizing him up.

The Doctor wings a nonexistent brow, smirking. “Wouldn't I?”

Half a second of silence follows before he leaps at her, diving for the bag of candy resting at her side. River squeaks in protest, too shocked by the sudden attack to scramble away. They both reach for the sweets and, for once, he’s faster. Triumphant in his quest, he holds the bag high in the air as he leans away from her. River follows after, nearly clambering on top of him as she paws at the bag.

“Give those back, you thief.” She demands through fits of laughter.

The Doctor doesn’t relent, holding the bag further out of her reach. “It’s the hat or the candy, River Song. Sacrifices must be made.”

In another desperate attempt to reclaim the bag, River leans into his chest further. The added weight sets him off balance and the Doctor tumbles backwards, taking River with him as he cracks his head on the granite. Wrestling for the sweets instantly ceases, River’s hand resting on his chest as she bites back enough laughter to ask, "Are you alright?"

The Doctor rubs at his head, wincing only slightly. "Yeah. Me hat took most of the blow.”

“Maybe it’s a lucky hat.” River offers, disentangling herself and helping him sit upright. The play fight sufficiently ruined, he relinquishes the sweets, handing them back to her. To his surprise, River stays curled into his side, and he takes the opportunity to wrap an arm over her shoulder, the other plopping his ridiculous hat atop her head. And it must be a lucky hat, indeed, because River allows it. She even shares her candy with him as they settle back into the moment, both staring off into the majestic mountain range as music fills the night air. 

He lets out a breath, relaxing as a peace settles inside him that he hadn't realized he needed. He did need her, in the vital way that the soul needs sleep and lungs need to breathe. He longed for her the way a wolf does the moon, the way books crave to be read, and music wants to be heard. He missed the comfort and ease of her presence the way a bird with heavy wings misses being carried by the breeze on a windless day. 

He can't put a name on the feeling blooming within him. It's more than just love, more complex than delight, and more intoxicating than ecstasy. It's hard to explain, these emotions that could never be summed up in words, spoken by a voice, or heard by ears. And yet they exist inside him as clear and present and real as the hearts beating in his chest. 

"It was." River says in a voice that doesn't bear arguing with, and he shifts, tilting his chin down to look at her, confused.

"Was what?"

"Worth the wait." She answers and he smiles like it's been pulled up from his toes to his lips, leaving a trail of warmth everywhere in between. They're not the three words his ears long to hear, nor did he expect them to affect him so deeply. But, in a way, it's all he's ever wanted to hear, to know that it was worth it, that they were worth it. 

"Yeah," he admits. "It was." They aren't the three words he wants to say, but he means them more than she knows, more than he ever realized he would. 

River pulls away from him suddenly, and it's only then that he hears the pounding of heavy footsteps reverberating through the metal stairwell. Their eyes meet, both sparkling with words that don’t need saying. Without missing a beat, they’re both on their feet, fingers entwined as they race for the door. They slide in behind it just as a team of security guards burst out and onto the roof. Slipping discretely behind the guards, the Doctor and River slide into the stairwell, sonicing the door locked behind them. 

The Doctor makes for the stairs, but a tug on his arm halts him. “This way.” River instructs, delighting in tugging him down a long corridor.

“Now where are we going?” Not that he’s complaining. In fact, he’s practically giggling as he runs along beside her.

“To find a teleport.” She grins up at him. "There's always a staff teleport. No supervisor in history would ever volunteer to walk around a park this size."

It takes a wrong turn or two, along with the sonicing of a few locked doors, but eventually, they find the staff room. And just as she promised, a teleport stands like a beacon in the corner of the room.

“You, River Song, are a genius.” He declares as they step into the, thankfully, empty room.

River chuckles, sashaying her way over to the teleport. “Flatter me later, sweetie. Right now we’ve got running to do.”

“What? I can’t do both?” He asks, skipping to her side as River adjusts the settings on the teleport.

“You’re welcome to try, but I’ve seen how you multitask.”

“With the right incentive, I’m a brilliant multitasker.”

River arches a suggestive brow. “And what might the _right incentive_ be?”

The Doctor steps closer, a crooked grin splitting his cheeks. Just then, a high pitched alarm pierces the air, interrupting their really important flirting. But River’s quick to tug him into position, activating the teleport before the safety protocol can kick into gear. They materialize on the ground level not far from where he’d parked the TARDIS, a team of out of shape security guards already headed straight for them when they flash into existence. The mischievous pair takes off running, easily evading their pursuers.

An alarm still blares in the distance, but River’s carefree laugh rings in the Doctor's ears richer and louder than any manufactured sound. They're only being chased by theme park security, but they run like their lives depend on it, the rush of the wind cool against their cheeks as hand in hand they head for the TARDIS. When they get within eyesight, the Doctor snaps his fingers. The doors open on command and the two of them file in, slamming the door behind them and leaning against it, panting like they'd just outrun a Dalek fleet.

The Doctor looks up at her, grinning through his labored breath. His lucky hat is no longer on her head, lost or discarded amid the chase. She looks radiant though, flushed cheeks, heaving chest, and a sparkle in her eyes. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect way to end the night than this, than laughing and running and her hand in his as they catch their breath.

"Just as well we enjoyed it." River pants. "Because I don't think we'll be allowed back."

The Doctor kicks off the door, bringing her with him. "Lucky for us, there's a million other places left to see."

She smiles fondly as she lets him pull her to the console. "You just never sit still do you?"

"Not when there's so many places to go."

"How do you decide?"

He releases her hand in favor of tapping affectionately on the console. "She does a lot of it for me. The Old Girl knows better than me where I need to go."

River hums, running her own hand over the console. Her eyes linger on the rotor and he feels the air around him warm, a welcoming embrace for her only child.

"Would you like to fly her?" He asks, and River looks to him in surprise.

“Now?"

"Good a time as any." He jumps to attention eagerly. Showing River how to fly the TARDIS is a privilege he never thought he'd be granted. He practically skips to her side, bringing the monitor with him. "Right, first you'll need to check the sensors to make sure we're not bringing along any uninvited guests." He reaches around her, twisting a dial so the monitor flashes to life, displaying the outside perimeter of the ship. "Next we need to engage the electromagnetic indicators to broadcast a signal that we’re preparing to enter the vortex." 

River turns her cheek to look up at him accusingly. "Are you telling me to mirror, signal, maneuver?"

"Of course not! Well, yes. But it's nothing like that. It's all very spacey wacey and complicated."

"Mmmhm." River hums, unconvinced as she turns back around.

"Now, most importantly, you'll need to make sure this lever here is flipped, otherwise it won't make the brilliant noise."

"You mean the brakes?" River deadpans and he huffs beside her.

"Who's the teacher here?"

"Sorry," River relents, but a smirk still clings to her cheeks. “Carry on.”

"Then, last but not least, we have the Trans-temporal Matter Displacement switch, which will send us into the vortex." 

"Where's that?"

"That red one there." He points to the left and River frowns.

"The one that says 'Go', seriously?"

"Yeah, alright. Everyone's a critic. Just push it."

With a light chuckle, River flips the switch. The TARDIS jolts to the side, sending them both stumbling. But his grip on the monitor is tight and his grip on River is even tighter as he stands behind her, bracing her as she slides into him. As if on reflex, her hand not clinging to the console shoots for the stabilizers, flipping the lever and steadying the ship.

The action doesn't escape his notice and the Doctor looks down at her with reverence. "How did you know to do that?" 

"I'm a quick study." She purrs, turning those vixen eyes on him. It’s hard not to get lost in them and he takes a much needed step back, putting some space between them as he swallows his hope.

“Right. You can take it from here, can’t you Old Girl? Pick us somewhere good, eh?” He doesn’t make it two steps before the TARDIS jerks again, sending him back into River's side. She catches him this time, arms around his waist as his rest on either side of her, pinning her against the console.

“Maybe I’m not such a quick study after all.” She chuckles, and the Doctor forces out a breathless laugh even though he knows this had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his stubborn ship.

“Maybe.” He concedes, but he doesn’t make to pull away. They simply stare at one another, time rotor pulsing as the floor hums beneath their feet.

  _And before he knows it, he's kissing her, pushing her up against the console like his life depends on it, greedy hands traversing her body, seeking out every delicious curve and crevice. River groans into his mouth, hands tugging violently at his shirt, not even bothering to undo the buttons. He breaks away to sink his teeth into her neck, the sounds of her guttural moans bouncing off the walls as buttons ping and scatter across the console floor._

"Doctor?" She speaks softly, and he swallows against a dry throat, pushing those images away and trying to focus on thoughts of relativity and time rotors and zig zag plotters and blue boringers.

"Yes, River?"

Her breath is velvet on his cheek and he represses the urge to shiver as she says, "We're here."

"Yes,” he breathes, feeling a little dizzy. “We are."

"No,” River stares up at him, smiling softly. “I mean we've landed." 

"Oh,” He shakes the fog away from his hazy brain, grabbing her hand as he steps back. “Well then, what are you waiting for? Let's go."  

“Shouldn't we see where we are first?” River asks, laughing lightly as she lets him pull her along.

“Does it matter?” He cajoles, skipping his way to the exit.

They pause by the doorway, and when he looks down at her, there’s a soft smile spreading across her features. “No," River exhales. “I guess not.” 

And with that, he swings open the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for all you nerds out there, 194 minutes is 3hrs and 14 mins. Get it? 3.14 ;)  
> I'm lame, I know. Don't judge me.


	13. Sand, Serenity, and Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally caved and made a tumblr. If you want to prompt me, follow me, ask me questions, or just indulge in my weirdness, my username is [xhellnhighheelsx](http://xhellnhighheelsx.tumblr.com)

"We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there." -Pascal Mercier

 

* * *

 

“Well this is unexpected."

River coos next to him, already half out of the ship before the Doctor even remembers he has feet. Sexy has never been one for subtly, but this is pushy even for her. A universe of wonders, all of time and space, and she had to pick  _here_.

"Oh quit moaning. Egypt’s not all bad." River declares, and the Doctor realizes he must have said that last part aloud.

Clearing his throat, he steps out of the ship and into the dry night air. It’s windy in the desert, especially at this height. But the breeze is cool as it kisses his cheeks and he has but to breathe it in to know exactly where they are. A tingle spreads through his veins and he can taste the scar tissue of time, pricking at him like tiny shards of shrapnel. 

"You clearly weren't here for the Mummy uprising 5623." The Doctor rebuttals and River gives a soft chuckle.

"I think we're a little early to have to worry about that."

Coming to stand by her side, he says, "Which begs the question, how early are we?"

They look in opposite directions, him to the sky to map the constellations, dating the time by the blanket of stars he calls his home, while River turns her attention downward to the Earth. He's always been sky bound where River is grounded.

"Mid 21st century, judging by the state of the stone." River offers, kneeling down to smooth her fingers over the sandy ruins. "But the atmosphere, it feels..." She trails off, taking a deep drag of oxygen in through her nose. Even if it's suppressed, she can sense it, smell it. The erratic flicker of fixed and flexible. What was and what could have been. What he remembers and what history forget. River looks to him, puzzled. "Did something important happen here?"

He hesitates, unsure how to answer because honestly, nothing happened here. But in an aborted timeline, in a world that never was, everything happened here, every second in history, the most important moment of their lives. The day the universe almost ended and time itself was nearly ripped apart by her bravery and refusal to give in. 

_"River, River, why do you have to be this?"_

_Why must she be so stubborn and brave and everything he wants and so much more than he deserves? It would be so much simpler if she wasn't the strong, defiant creature that she is, if things didn't always have to be on her terms, if she wasn't all the things that made him love her most. He hates doing this to her, putting her through this and lying. But she's young yet; and before he could trust her with his secret, he needed to know that she would make the right decision in spite of everything, that she was willing to surrender to the greater good even if it meant losing the man she loves and becoming the weapon she fought against for so long. He needed to know that even though she weighed her pain greater than that of the universe, she would never weigh it more important._

_It's time to ease her suffering, to stop letting her mourn for a murder she doesn't have to commit. It's time to trust her with the truth_.

 

The Doctor's tongue snakes out to moisten his lips, but his throat is still dry as he says, "Why do you ask?"

"I dunno..." River shakes her head, brow furrowing like she's straining against some invisible barrier.

It summons his feet to move nearer to her, concern creeping into his chest. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." River meets his eyes, offering a tight, semi forced smile. Getting to her feet, she blinks away whatever was troubling her, replacing it with all the excitement she held just a moment ago. "Let's have a look at that view, shall we?”

Before she even finishes the thought, River’s already headed to the edge, leaving the Doctor to follow after. He steps as gracefully as he can across the uneven stone, River bringing them to a halt at the very edge of the ancient monument. The Doctor makes the mistake of looking down, his eyes met with 140 meters of ragged stone steps. Gravity beckons him towards the open air before him, and he gulps, fighting the urge to take a step back.

The breeze is crisp, the dry air cold and rustic in the way only desert wind can be. Invisible fingers catch at his clothes, his Hawaiian shirt flapping softly against his skin. River’s hair is still pulled back tight, only a few strays escaping to frame her face. The wind plucks at those, too, rustling the rebellious strands, and River closes her eyes, leaning into the wind as if, at any moment, she'll be carried away by it. 

It's quiet, a profound kind of silence that imprints itself on one's bones. To the west is endless desert, just Saharan sand and star speckled sky. But to the east lies a city of lights and laughter, the beautiful mundanity of thousands of humans living out their daily lives. This place is a little bit of everything, of ancient and modern, of the here and now and everywhere and everywhen. 

It truly is the mirror of Lake Silencio. Where the lake had been placid, low, and fixed, the pyramid is high and erratic, buzzing and crackling with activity and possibility. The air around them is thick, heavy from the weight of days that never were, when time began anew and the universe was saved by a kiss. He swears it's palpable, that the taste of her lips lingers in the surrounding neutrinos, that the static of time is still charged by the friction of her mouth against his. 

_“I'll make it a good one." He promises with a shaky voice._

_His tongue snakes out to lick his nervous lips and she's a little breathless as she insists, "You better."_

_Their lips meet and she tastes like being in two places at once, by a lake side with a weapon and on a pyramid with his wife, his hearts pounding in his chest even though they belong in her hands. Her mouth opens under his and he abandons the silk around his fingers in favor of reaching for her cheek. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth, sparks flying as reality snaps back into place._

The Doctor shakes his head, blinking back the memories induced by the familiar landscape and encouraged by the crackle of time on the air. He realizes his hand is pressed reverently to the hollow of his throat, resting where his bow tie should be, a salve, a safety blanket. 

He schools himself, fingers curling into a fist as they drop to his side. A shifting glance towards River reveals that she hadn't noticed. Her eyes remain closed, but the tranquil expression she held has morphed into pursed lips and a furrowed brow, her fingers pressing into her temples. 

"What's wrong?" The Doctor turns to face her, hand hovering near her shoulder. 

River shakes her head at his concerns, but she doesn't bother with any pseudo smiles this time. "Just a headache." 

"Well we can't have that." He chimes, and River opens her eyes to find him investigating the ground.

Folding her arms across her chest and looking at him incredulously, she asks, "What are you doing?" 

Finally finding a semi even stone, the Doctor plops down on the rocks, crossing his legs and patting his thighs. "Getting rid of your headache. Come lay down and close your eyes."  

River arches a brow at him. “You want my head in your lap? Here?”

“Sure! Why not? We have sand. We have stars. And, I know, these hands don't look like much, but I guarantee they'll have you relaxed in no time.” The Doctor beams and the curl tugging at River’s lips turns slightly wicked.

"You exhibitionist types are all the same.”

The Doctor tilts his head, confused for half a second before he catches her smirk and- oh!

"No! Not like that!” He blushes furiously. "I meant for rubbing!" River arches her brow higher and he turns impossibly redder. "Your temples! Rubbing your temples!" 

"I knew what you meant, darling." River chuckles, sauntering to his side. 

The Doctor lets out a flustered huff, dragging his hand through his hair. "Why must you torment me so?"

"Because, sweetie, you blush so pretty I can't resist." She stands before him, friendly amusement dancing in her eyes. But she hasn't made to sit down yet, the smirk on her lips slipping slightly as she says, "You don't have to, you know."

"I want to.” He smiles up at her before patting his thighs again. “Now, sit down, quit torturing me, and let me work my magic."

River hesitates only a fraction of a second, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth as she bites back the urge to return his smile. Her resolve crumbles under his sincere gaze; and she takes a seat on the ruins, leaning back so her head is pillowed by his thighs.  

The Doctor rubs his hands together in preparation, flexing his long digits before he presses the pads of his fingers against her temples. Her skin is warm and soft under his fingers, and they move in rhythmic circles, applying just the right amount of pressure until the tension around her eyes relaxes. Soothed by his ministrations, River allows her lashes to flutter closed, letting out a satisfied hum. "You're pretty good at this."

"I told you." He states with confidence. "My fingers are magic.”

River chuckles again, lips threatening a smirk, and the Doctor watches the subtle curl of her mouth from his upside down angle. Studying her face like this is so familiar, so easy. He's spent countless nights and lazy afternoons with her curled up near his lap, his fingers massaging lazily at her scalp and toying with her springy curls. 

_The television chatters quietly in the corner. It's some western Rory picked out, insisting it was a classic. But it mustn't be that good a film because Amy and Rory are fast asleep, curled up together in the love seat. Normally, he would just disappear for a while, hop in the TARDIS, pop out for coffee from 24th century Columbia, and be back by breakfast. Unfortunately, or perhaps quite fortunately, he's rather stuck at the moment._

_Looking down at his lap, he smiles to see that River is also fast asleep. She's curled into the cushions of the settee like a cat, her head using his thigh as a pillow. Her impossible hair takes up the majority of his lap and he feels compelled to comb his fingers through the golden mass. He kneads gently at her scalp and River purrs, tilting her head back into the touch. "You're going to ruin my hair if you keep that up."_

_"It always looks like that.” He murmurs back and River rolls onto her back so she can look up at him from her horizontal position._

_"Probably because you're always touching it."_

_The Doctor chuckles, still lazily toying with her curls. "I'll stop doing it when you stop enjoying it. Besides, how am I supposed to resist?" He tugs on a particularly bouncy looking coil, pulling it straight and watching as it springs back into place. "It defies physics."_

_River just watches him, gazing up with sleepy eyes. They flutter slightly when his fingers resume their task of kneading her scalp and his lips curl into a soft smile._

_"Go back to sleep, dear."_

_"I wasn’t asleep." She protests without opening her eyes._

_"Of course not." He abandons his task of playing with her hair, walking his fingers across her forehead and down the bridge of her nose. "Humor me, eh? I need an excuse to ruin your hair." He enunciates the word by bopping the tip of said lovely nose, making River's face crinkle adorably in her sleepy state._

_Eyes still closed, she yawns. "I suppose I can pretend. For you."_

_"You're a gracious wife." He teases, and her lips tug at the corners, fighting a smile._

_"And don't you forget it." She murmurs, wiggling her head against his hand, encouraging his fingers to resume their work. He does so willingly, bringing his other hand over so his thumb can drop to those sleepy lips, tracing the contours of her almost smile until they relax, parting slightly as she drifts back to sleep._

 

He's watching those very same lips when he notices her smile slip, shoulders fidgeting. "Is this not helping?" He asks, worried he may have lost his touch. 

"No, it's not that." River shifts again, wiggling her body one last time before deciding to open her eyes and pull away. “There’s something digging into my back.” She states, sitting into an upright position and turning her attention to the stone. There’s a crack splitting the ancient rock and wedged inside of it is a hunk of small, black plastic.

“Bloody tourists. They should never have opened this up to the public.” The Doctor grumbles while River pries the nuisance from its hiding place.

It’s no larger than a thumb drive and River rolls the curious object between her fingers. “Tourists, yes. But not modern ones.” She says, eyes studying the item in question. “That’s Poly Propositum plastic. 50th century at least.”

Interest peaked, that Doctor reaches for the object to examine it. It’s sleek and smooth; and she’s right. It’s definitely not contemporary. But what is it? It’s too small to be a teleport and too large to be a Bioimplant. By the shape of it, it could be some kind of transmitter or an antenna or possibly a-

 Realization dawns, and the Doctor chuckles lightly, barely keeping his amusement at bay. “It's a beacon. “

_“It’s a timey wimey distress beacon. Who built this?”_

“On a pyramid?” River asks incredulously. “That's a bit odd.”

“It’s not as uncommon as you think.” The Doctor muses.  

“Why is it here?”

“I expect we were supposed to find it.” He adds casually, and River’s gaze sharpens, flicking from the device to him as he elaborates. “It’s a broadcast beacon, that if plugged into, oh, I don’t know, a _communicator_ , it would amplify the homing signal of said device, taking us straight to the source.”

River’s lips part in understanding, eyes locking with his for a brief moment before she jumps to attention, instantly on guard and ready for action. "Okay. We need a plan."

The Doctor scoffs, remaining in his casual position on the ground as he studies the tiny device. "A plan for what? We can't  _use_  this, River."

"Of course we can. It will take us right to them."

"Yes! It would take us _straight to them_! We don't know who they are or what they want. We'd be walking in blind."

Her eyes sparkle with challenge and her lips twitch at the corners as she says, "I'm not afraid of the dark."

"River." He sighs, eyes finding hers. "This might be another trap. They could be waiting for us just like they were at Asgard.”

“But what if it’s not?" She protests. "Maybe your ship brought us here for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to find this.”

The Doctor shakes his head softly. “It’s not worth the risk.”

River huffs, knowing he’s right as she turns her eagle eyes on the desert, scanning it for any sign on trouble. He can tell by the way her fingers flex that she wishes she was armed, that they’re twitching for the comfort of a trigger. He focuses instead on the device in his hand, sonicing it in search for clues.

But there’s nothing. No finger prints, no DNA, nothing but tiny traces of time energy. His hearts scream at him to trust it, that it's from _her_ , that she’s telling him the way, showing him the way out. But he thought the snow globe had been a message from her, too. He let hope cloud his thoughts and it lead them straight into a trap. If this really was from River, she would have left him more of a clue, wouldn't she? A message. A ‘hello sweetie’. Something. 

"What if they weren't waiting for  _us_?” River speaks up, her back to him still. “At Asgard, what if it was me, younger me, that they were waiting for? If they have my diary, they'd know I was there.”

“What would they want with a younger version of you if they're not rewriting you?”

“I don't know.” River’s shoulders give a discrete shrug, but the sound of her voice betrays the casual manner in which she intended it. There’s a quiver in her tone and it floats across the breeze, chilling the night air. “Maybe she knows something I don't.”

“That would imply that they knew you lost your memory when the Library database was corrupted. And if that’s the case, why bother setting traps to capture you now?”

“I don't know. But they must be desperate if they're leaving clues like this."

She's right. Whoever they are, they're getting desperate and that makes them all the more dangerous. They're counting on him and River to be just as desperate for answers. They're trying to play him, taunt him with clues, distract him with puzzles. It won't work. He won't be tempted, not this time.

"Although," River begins, thoughtful. "How would they know to come here? Unless..., have I been here before?”

Still focused on the tiny black beacon, the Doctor mutters, “Not in this reality.”

“What?" River calls back, her voice slightly strained.

“Nothing. Sorry.” The Doctor speaks up, finally hopping to his feet and dusting off his trousers. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re not going to let them bait us into any more traps.” Whatever they want from her, they’ll have to go through him to get it. “That being said," he adds, tucking the tiny beacon in his pocket along side the communicator and his sonic. "We should leave in case they decide to come back, don’t you think?” 

River says nothing, and at her lack of response, the Doctor’s eyes seek her out. She’s no longer alert in her gaze over the desert. Instead her eyes are pinched closed, hands once again framing her face.

“River? Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just.. My head..." She turns to face him, stepping away from the edge. As she does, her knee gives way and she stumbles forward. The Doctor is quick to catch her, her chest falling into his as his arms fold around her waist.

“You sure about that?” He asks, helping her back to her feet.

River gives a hollow laugh, pulling away and running a nervous hand over her hair. “Just a little dizzy.”

She won’t meet his eyes, too flustered or embarrassed by the fault in her usually graceful demeanor. But there’s something else, too, something that compels him to lift a gentle hand to cup her cheek, turning her face back to his. A drop of red trickles beneath her nostril and he wipes it away with his thumb. River’s eyes fall to his hand as he pulls it away, a streak of crimson staining the digit. "River-“

"I'm fine, honestly." She repeats, wiping discreetly at her own nose.

"You said that the last two times, at Jim's and then again at the caves."

River scoffs, all bravado as she rolls her eyes. "Well, someone was rooting around in my brain and then I'd just been shot."

"Exactly.” The Doctor breathes. “So what's causing it this time?"

This seems to finally make her pause, a flicker of genuine worry mingling with the pain behind her eyes. Their gaze remains locked for a silent moment, the emotion behind his hazel eyes pleading with her to, just this once, let him take care of her. “Let’s get back to the ship, at least until your head is better.”

River exhales a heavy sigh. “Alright. But just until I can think straight. Then we’re finding a way to use that beacon to our advantage.”

“Yes, dear.” He concedes, one arm remaining wrapped around her waist to steady her.

River finds the energy to smirk, leaning into him slightly for support as they make their way back to the ship. The fact that she even accepts his help speaks volumes, though, if it tells of her pain or her new founded trust in him, he isn't sure.

Once inside the safety of the wooden blue box, he kicks the door shut behind him before easing River into the jump seat. She offers him a grateful, somewhat strained smile and he brushes a stray curl behind her ear. "The TARDIS' stasis equilibrium matrix should help." His words are soothing, meant to comfort. But they feel useless as he observes River's contorted expression. 

"It feels like my head is going to explode." She shakes her head, closing her eyes to resume rubbing her own temples. 

The Doctor frowns to himself, hating the sight of her in pain, cheeks slightly pale, eyes scrunched, lips pursed, a smear of red still staining the corner of her nose. "We need to get you to a hospital."

River snorts. "Are you daft? We can't go to a hospital. Remember what happened last time?"

"We can't just do nothing. Look at you."

"You're Mr. Time and Space." She snarks. "You think of something."

The Doctor half growls, dragging a hand through his hair as he looks about his ship. He knows he has to do something. And yet, he's at a loss of what. It can’t be a coincidence. The bleeding, the headaches. And now it happened  _here_ , where fractures in time crackle in the air like static. Given the current delicate nature of her memories, the high activity area was bound to wreak havoc on her mind. He needs to counteract the stimuli, balance out the effects of whatever the time static has done to her. He needs somewhere peaceful and calm. He needs-

An idea suddenly blossoming in his mind, he bounds for the console.

"I said no hospitals." River pipes up, watching as he inputs coordinates and spins about.

"I’m not taking you to a hospital." He beams back. "I'm taking you to a place of relaxation and tranquility."

"What, like a health spa?" River asks dubiously.

He pauses, considering her question. There's no masseuses or steam rooms, but there's definitely mud and probably even sea weed of some description, so, "Sure, like a health spa. In a manner of speaking.”

\----

 

They’ve left behind sand and stone for flowing water and a jungle of green. It’s one extreme to another, from where the universe nearly collapsed, where it was shredded and stitched back together to the spot where the universe began, a place of healing and birth.  

It’s the center of the universe, the eye of everything that ever was or is or will be and the laws of physics don’t apply here. It is the focal point of all of existence, keeping all of time and space at equilibrium.

There is no sky to speak of, no heavens. Looking up is equivalent to gazing past the event horizon of a black hole. He can see everything, the universe in its entirety, crimson nebulas and supernovas and gas giants all speckled onto the black beyond. There is no moon or sun. This place is its own light source, a fraction of light from every star in existence reflecting back on this one place and bathing it in the glow of a billion constellations.

The surface of this impossible place is over grown with vegetation. Vines blanket the surface, a canopy of trees stand taller than sky scrapers, and exotic flowers bloom in more colors than a human’s eyes could detect.

In the middle of the thick mass of jungle lies a waterfall. Well it’s not technically water. It’s the life force of the universe, and it isn’t really falling. It’s rising, forever flowing out and away from this one point. All of matter and energy originate in this singular place, slowly spreading and stretching out to every corner of the cosmos.

“I'd hardly call this a health spa.” River chides, and the Doctor shrugs.

"It might as well be. It's calming, healthy, and there's a basin of liquid energy."

"Actually," River critiques, stepping out onto the jungle floor, vegetation squishing beneath her feet. "It's a conglomeration of baryon particles, hyper condensed into a soup of dark matter to form an expansive plasma."

"Yeah." The Doctor hops onto the thick vegetation with decidedly less grace. "Exactly what I said."

“I think the life force of the universe is a _tad_ more impressive than just ‘liquid energy'.”

"Yeah well, no one likes a show off." He teases as they make their way onto the rocks surrounding the pool of energy. The stone is neither warm nor cold, nor is it slippery or rough. It simply is, and the closer they get to the pool, the more River relaxes. The soothing, unblemished, low energy atmosphere must be working because her steps are wide and confident, in control once again. 

They come to a stop near the edge of the rock. A few meters beneath them lies a lagooned area of plasma, the majority of it funneling lazily toward the center, where it floats out and away into the vast beyond. But this small section is more or less secluded, surrounded by a rock wall and left to merely trickle its way into the main pool. The substance is gelatinous and shimmering with stardust, and though it's clear, he can't see the bottom. He wonders if there even is a bottom or if its wells are as infinite as the universe it feeds. 

"How did you know all that? About the plasma, I mean." The Doctor says, turning towards River.

"I studied it ages ago. Some of the earliest civilizations in the universe believed it to have healing powers."

"And does it?" He questions, watching as River removes her pony tail, freeing her hair from its confines. 

"Not in its purest form." She answers with a shake of her head, her curls springing up with extra vigor out of defiance. "But if spliced with stem cells, it can prove helpful with cell renewal. Hospitals use it in extreme cases."

"Remarkable." The Doctor breathes, and River shrugs.

“Not really. Just basic 50th century biochemistry.”

“I meant you.” He confesses and River stalls, pushing back a particularly zealous curl and tucking it behind her ear. She's speechless and in the pause between his heartbeats, he swears her cheeks go slightly pink. River song, _the_ River song, vixen, goddess, and legend alike, is blushing. It's a rare occurrence, and his eyes can hardly believe it as they drink in the sight of her: speechless and rosy cheeked. She looks magnificent, and he makes a secret vow to find ways to see it more often.

“It has a lot of names.” River recovers quickly, and the Doctor turns back toward the plasma, pretending he hadn't noticed the minor lapse. “Azathoth, The Serenity Pools, The Fountain of Youth, Oa, Ethernia. Or most commonly, the Garden of Eden.” She pauses, and though he can't see her, he can feel the smirk lacing her words. “So I guess that makes us Adam and Eve.”

His own smirk tugs his lips. “Well, try not to eat any apples.”

She merely chuckles, a low and rumbling sound that makes no promises. 

"I'm serious." He emphasizes, eyes still fixed on the pools. “Anything we do could affect the whole of creation. One toe in this pool could ripple across all of space and time, having a massive effect on the entire univer-“

A blur of skin rushes past him, followed by a loud splash as River dives head first into the plasma. The Doctor simply gapes, staring on in shock while his brain struggles to kick into gear. A pile of clothes sits at his feet and he swallows hard as he looks up just in time to watch River surface. She gives a satisfied hum, smoothing back her hair as she treads in place. Given the clear surface, he can tell that she's still in her bra and knickers. They're black and lacy and he might even be distracted by them if he wasn't too busy panicking.

"River! You can't skinny dip in here!"

"Sure I can." She responds easily. "And you should, too. You wouldn’t let someone with a head injury swim on their own would you? It’s a health hazard. I could be a danger to myself.”

“You’re a danger to the universe." He grumbles. "And I don’t have a swim suit."

 “It’s Eden. Clothing is optional.” River says, flashing him that smile that always seems to precede him being tied up, for one reason or another.

On a good day, he hardly wins against River. But when she’s nearly naked in a magical pool at the center of the universe, there’s really no room to argue. With a deliberate huff, he begins unbuttoning his shirt. River’s smirk deepens and he feels a familiar sensation creep up his spine.

Her mischievous eyes on him have a shimmer of hunger in them, but as he sheds his shirt her gaze turns amused. “Are those suspenders?" 

He flushes, pushing said fabric off his bare shoulders. “I felt naked without them.”

She chuckles again, her expression unreadable as she sinks below the surface once again. Free of her gaze, he takes the opportunity to strip off his trousers, leaving him standing on the rocks in his underwear. When she resurfaces a few feet away, he's padding barefoot along the rocks, trying to find a suitable place to step into the water.

"What are you doing now?"

"Easing in, I don't want to disturb the energy flow."

River rolls her eyes. "Quit being a chicken and get in here."

"Caring about causality hardly makes me a chicken." The Doctor rebuttals, half hopping, half stumbling his way down the rocks. 

River responds by splashing at the liquid, dousing him with a wall of slippery plasma and nearly sending him toppling in sideways.

"Stop that!" He shouts, only barely finding his footing. 

River merely laughs at his antics, sending another wave in his direction. "What are you gonna do about it?" She taunts, a challenge sparkling in her eyes as she grins up at him. Her skin is buzzing, aglow from the residual energy disturbance and her hair is weighed down, clinging to her neck and shoulders. Somehow, the defiant curls remain wild, not entirely tamed by the watery substance. The essence of her beckons him, and the Doctor finds himself unable to resist, left with no other choice but to leap off the rocks, cannon balling into the strange liquid. The displaced substance welcomes him, wrapping around him in an embrace, sliding over his skin like silk. When he kicks his way back to the top, he surfaces with a grin. 

River, on the other hand, is less amused. She’s soaking wet, her face and hair are still dripping from the assault. Her eyes narrow on him and the Doctor gulps. "Now, River. Be reasonable. You splashed me first."

"Hmm, reasonable? Never heard of it." She coquettes, the innocence of her voice betraying the predatory nature in which she closes in on him.

The Doctor keeps strategically out of her reach, swimming backwards until he finds he is unceremoniously halted, his back colliding with the nearby rocks. River’s cat like eyes taunt him, a lioness before the kill, and the Doctor gulps again, knowing he’s done for. "In my defense, can I say just one thing?"

She pauses, an arched brow signaling that she’ll allow his testimony. He takes in a deep breath, opening his mouth, and just when she thinks he’s about to speak, the Doctor slaps his hands at the surface, soaking River once again as a final act of rebellion. River squeaks at the surprise assault, turning on him with wide eyes. A look of shock and amusement paints her face as she leaps for him, dunking the Doctor into the pools. 

He allows himself to be submerged, and when he pops back up for air, his mop of brown hair hangs in front of his eyes. Rather than brush it back, he shakes his head like a puppy fresh from a bath. Splattered once again, River glares at him. "Never would have guessed you for the type to fight dirty." She says, swatting at his arm.

In return, the Doctor offers her a cheeky grin. "Fight fire with fire, I always say." He teases and River jabs at his ribs, causing the Doctor to lurch backwards, curling in on himself. 

Her face softens with an almost believable innocence. "Why Doctor, are you ticklish?"

"No. I just have very sensitive ribs."

"Is that so?" She mock queries, poking at him with both hands this time.

"It's a very serious condition!" He manages through a fit of giggles, squirming and spasming against the effects of River’s merciless tickling.   

The Doctor struggles to say afloat, dancing away from her until, finally, his hands capture her wrists, stilling her movements as he pins her against the wall.

Their still heaving chests brush slightly, the lace of her bra scratching against his bare chest as the Doctor manages to catch his breath enough to ask, “Do you surrender?”

"Never." River breathes, grinning.

"How about a truce, then?" The Doctor offers instead, and River leans forward in challenge.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just have to keep you as my prisoner.” He breathes, but he’s just a little too close, his voice just a little too low and a little too heady.

River’s teasing smile falters, looking up at him like she wants him to, like she wants nothing more than to see him take control. Her eyes have darkened, pupils dilating. Her wrists aren’t even flexing under his hold, and it occurs to him that she is putty, waiting for him to press himself against her.

Throat suddenly dry, he swallows hard, watching as water rolls up her skin, defying gravity and every other universal law he’s ever seen, heard, or read about. It’s his turn to feel dizzy, the closeness of her too much to handle. He releases his hold on her wrists, their hands falling to their sides, but can’t bring himself to swim away. Still only a breath of space between them as he says, “River, I…”

He means to say more, but his voice wavers on her name. The look in her eyes is too intense, too curious, too open and inviting that he has to look away. His vision lingers on her shoulder instead, following the path of her collarbone to her chest. The patch of pink flesh that resides there still looks raw against her honey skin. Even though he hates the thought of her ever being hurt, he can’t suppress the wave of euphoria that washes over him because it’s not just any blemish on her skin. It’s not just an injury. It's a sign of something new, something fresh and never before seen because she is _alive_ and here. Against all odds, they can start again.

“It’s healing nicely.” He all but whispers, nodding to the soft pink skin of her chest. River looks down, tracing her delicate fingers just above the swell of her breasts. He could keep time by the subtle rise and fall of her chest, measure it’s passing by the way it swells and recedes as oxygen fills her lungs and leaves her lips in labored breaths.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and he's suddenly overcome with the need to sink his own teeth into that plump flesh, to tangle his hands in her hair and run his tongue over every inch on her skin. River’s eyes linger on his lips and his on hers and the next thing he knows they are smashed together. He isn’t sure who kisses whom first.  But how they got here is irrelevant. All he knows is her lips on his and the taste of her mouth and the heat of her body and the cold liquid and the slickness of her skin and nothing else matters. His hands bury in her hair, balling into fists, tugging lightly until River moans into his mouth. The sound settles in his belly like a brick, heavy and- no not a brick at all. An inferno, with flames that lick and crawl up his insides.

The burn inside him is an infection, a glorious all-consuming hunger making its way into his bones. He never knew the depths of his starvation until this moment, until he tasted her again. She no longer tastes of bitter goodbye. There's a sweetness he can only define as possibility, a future that hasn't been written. The infinite energy around them only fuels the fire. And it is a fire, deep in his soul, his belly, his blood. The tepid water that was his insides is now boiling, screaming her name, and demanding more more _more_.

God, it feels good to kiss her. All the pent up passion bursting out of him, his tongue gently probing into her mouth while hers sweeps against his until he is suffocating, slowly being robbed of oxygen. But how can he be bothered about breathing when he's drowning in so much glorious River? 

He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and River moans. Her nails drag down his back, digging into his slippery skin, biting at his flesh as she wills him ever closer. Need renders him helpless but to push her further against the rocks, and River groans her approval, her legs wrapping around his waist as he presses his body flush against hers.

His hands abandon their hold on her hair, clutching at her hips instead. She retaliates by rocking them against him and the Doctor is forced to tear his mouth away from hers, burying his face into her neck. Her lips find the shell of his ear, nipping slightly, making the Doctor shudder from the inside out.

"River." He mumbles against her skin. Her name on his lips is salvation and sin, prayer and pleasure because until this moment he was a wasteland, a winter that had forgotten the glorious heat of summer.

"John." She moans back, and the Doctor’s body goes cold, the fire within him extinguished by a single syllable.

The Doctor pulls back, his grip on her hips loosening. River meets his eyes, her puzzled expression still slightly flushed.

“What’s the matter?” She says with ragged breath.

Everything. Everything and nothing because her body against his is the only place that feels like home. Her lips on his the only thing worth tasting. Their mingled breathes the only air worth breathing. The way their bodies respond to one another the only thing worth feeling because nothing has changed. And yet, everything has.

She is everything to him. But what is he to her? He is kissing her because he loves her, because he’s waited eons for this, because his body knows no other way, because she is his wife and his hearts belong to her, always and completely. But she doesn’t know any of that. She hardly knows him at all. This doesn’t mean the same for her. This isn’t a reunion; this is a fling, a whim, an impulse reaction and, “I can’t do this.”

“You mean you…?” River arches a brow, shifting her gaze south.

“No! No, not like that.” The Doctor flushes, removing his hands from her body so he can run his fingers through his hair. “I mean I can’t- _We_ can’t-“

River’s expression softens, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’m not married anymore. I don’t even remember it.” She breathes and it’s the Doctor’s turn to look confused.

“What does that have to do with-“

“It’s me isn’t it? I'm the woman you were talking about that night, the one you couldn’t be with because the timing wasn't right. It’s because I was married, right?"

The Doctor simply gapes at her, his brain struggling to catch up with what his ears are hearing when River gives a soft chuckle.

“I'm not oblivious, you know. All that you’ve done while asking nothing in return. I invited you into my bed and you just slept there without expecting anything. I figured you had to either be in love with me or gay. And judging by that kiss..."

The hand cupping his cheek finds its way into his hair, guiding his mouth back toward hers. He's too dazed to understand why until her lips are on his again. She sucks his bottom lip into her mouth, nibbling on the semi swollen flesh, and the Doctor almost loses himself to her again. Half his mind is yelling at him to shut up and kiss her for all he’s worth, while the other half desperately tries to remember that he can’t allow this to continue. He can’t he can’t he can’t. 

Suppressing a groan, he finds the will to pull away once again. “Wait, wait, River, we can’t.”

This time River lets a frustrated huff. “Why not?”

“Because you're right. I was talking about you. But it's not that simple.”

“We couldn’t be together and now we can. Seems pretty simple to me.”

“But," he sighs, and it feels like the words are being ripped out of his being, carving fresh wounds into his hearts, "You don't remember me. You hardly know anything about me.” He thought it would be better this way, that they could get to know each other anew, that he could make her fall in love with him all over again. He thought he could rebuild what they had without burdening her with obligation, but he was wrong. It's him she wants, but it's not. It’s not him she’s kissing; it’s the him he wanted her to see. She can’t love him until she _truly_ knows him. And she’ll never truly know him while so much of their past is shrouded in secret. She can’t choose him if she doesn't have the full picture. All she has is the sugar coated bits and it's not fair to her, to either of them and, "This feels wrong."

The look on her face makes him want to eat his words. She looks like he’s slapped her and he can feel her walls go up instantly, everything vulnerable about her slamming shut like an iron door, her body stiffening as she pulls away. "Kissing me feels _wrong_?"

"No! Well yes, technically. But only because, well, because you are the woman I was talking about. But you're different now. I'm different. It wouldn't be fair to either of us while-"

"I’m incomplete.”

“What, no! River-“

"Don't worry about it. I get what you're saying." She tries to hide it, but he catches the shimmer in her eyes. And oh, how he recognizes that shine, the same one he saw so long ago in the eyes of her younger self. That flicker that speaks of feeling lost, broken, damaged. River makes to swim away and his hearts plummet, pulled to the pit of his stomach by the knowledge that he’s the one who made her feel this way. He knows what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough. He remembers those long ago days when she would look at him, eyes full of longing, willing him to hurry up and be her husband already. He remembers how incomplete it made him feel, how inadequate and angry the disappointment in her eyes made him.

“Let me explain.” He begs, swimming after her.

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“Please just let me-“

“It’s not like it meant anything.” She says with finality, and the Doctor stops in his tracks.

“It.. it didn’t?”

“Of course not. Like you said, I hardly know you.” She offers flippantly, avoiding eye contact as she hoists herself from the pools. “Let’s just forget about it, yeah?”

He doesn't want to forget about it. But at this moment, he knows there's nothing he could say that would make her listen. She's hurt and confused and she doesn't want his excuses. Judging by the hurried rate at which she moves, desperate to escape his presence, he isn't even sure she wants any version of him anymore. He wouldn't blame her. No matter their situation, he always seems to find ways of hurting her.

“If that’s what you want.” The Doctor breathes quietly, sharp eyes studying her. 

“Good.” She finally meets his eyes, offering a brief, tight lipped smile before she scoops up her clothes and heads back to the ship.

He remains where he is, stunned, useless. He's still treading water, still floating, but he no longer feels light as air. His limbs feel like bricks, his whole body heavy and weighed down by all the things he had been before. By secrets and half truths, by could-bes and almosts. He had hoped that she would figure it all out, that she would somehow remember and he wouldn't have to explain. Then she would see everything as it was and everything as it is and everything they could be, and together they could start anew with the best of both.

The feel of her lips dances across his own like a phantom, a cruel reminder that they are still just living in a world of almosts. Everything they want is still as it has always been, close enough to feel and somehow still out of reach. That no matter how close they become, there is still an impenetrable wall between them, still a barrier of lies and secrets and nothing has changed but circumstance.

He tried to seize this as a second chance at a life with her, a path where they could be together and she would remain untainted by the burdens of foreknowledge and obligations of the past. But once again, it seems the only way to have her is at cost to her. He had worried that telling her the truth would push her away, but as he watches her receding figure, each step a knife in his chest, he realizes that in not telling her, he’s as good as lost her anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, just a heads up, I'm having family visit for a few weeks, so there probably won't be much time for writing. But I'll do my best! As always, thanks for all the support :)


	14. Hopes and Expectations. Black holes and Revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's not my typical 8k word chapter, but I was able to do some writing amid the hustle and bustle. So here’s this to hold you guys over until the next chapter. It may have gotten a little sexy. Not even sorry. 
> 
> Also, thank you so much Cassie!! You have been an amazing help with this chapter. You're the best :)

“Trust in dreams, for in them is the hidden gate to eternity.”- Kahlil Gibran 

* * *

 

Strange things, dreams. Strange how they can make one’s heart race despite knowing it's a dream. Strange how they bleed from one scene to another, both seamless and erratic. Strange how faces he's seen and places he's been all blend together, how they can be all too familiar and so very foreign. It's right and it's wrong, a truth and a lie, a reality around him that isn't real at all.

He knows because his shoes don’t crunch against the ground on which he walks. The earth is wet with snow but he leaves no footprints. There’s air in his lungs but it doesn’t billow out before him, warming the night air. He should be cold as he makes his way through the fog, but the wind doesn’t chill him, the blanket of night more like a shadow cast by the sands of time. There’s a figure in the distance, but he can’t quite make it out. It’s blurry and distorted and it pulls him ever onward, compelled by gravity, and he has to know, has to discover who it is. But the harder he runs, the thicker the fog becomes, the figure before him growing ever more elusive.

He blinks once and it’s River, her hair pulled high atop her head. A grin splits her cheeks, ice skates strapped to her feet and she’s spinning spinning spinning. He blinks again and she’s in a space suit, visor tinted, white smoke and a bright light in the darkness. Another blink and he’s back in the snow. River’s back is to him and no matter how fast his feet move he never gets any closer. “River!” he calls her name but she doesn’t hear him. She doesn't see him, either; and he knows it shouldn't kill him but it does. “ _River!”_ he shouts again, louder this time, his raspy voice ringing with desperation.

Still, River doesn’t answer. She looks straight ahead, her eyes fixed on something he can’t quite see. It’s distorted by the mist, protruding from the ground, tall and proud and cold and it’s not the only one. He is surrounded by decaying trees and destruction. As he looks around, he sees a monumental TARDIS, a sea of gravestones, and “they’d never bury my wife out here.”

His eyes fall back to River and he’s running, running as fast as he can but his feet aren’t moving and, “River! River, please. Stop!” He curses and he shouts and the snow has turned to sand. Sand and desert sun and River marches toward a lake, a lake of silence. Silence will fall when she submerges back into the blue abyss, alone with her thoughts and tear-stained face, her only comfort the word of a man who lies.

He has to reach her, rid her of that suit, that prison. But she doesn’t wait for him to reach her; she continues to run, to be strong, really strong and running away. But she shouldn’t have to, not from him. This time she doesn’t have to do it alone.

The astronaut takes its first step into the water and he’ll never make it in time. But he has to. He can’t let her remain submerged at the bottom of a lake. He has to find her so she _knows_ , knows for sure that he’s alive, that his plan worked.

His feet pound against the sand and, “What’s Lake Silencio?” she asks as they make their way to the caves, her secret caves, where they can hear thunder rumbling in the distance. Except it isn’t thunder. It’s laughter, the man in the alley all but laughing at them as he says, “He didn’t tell you, did he? Oh, that is just so typical.”

 She’s up to her shoulders now, the impossible astronaut diving back to its unholy depth. He chases after, charging in and disturbing the still water with his frantic searching. “Stop, River! Wait!” He lunges for her, just out of reach. The helmet disappears beneath the surface and she’s gone. He's too late, always too late and now he's falling, sinking, being pulled under, darkness encroaching and, ”Hey, who turned out the lights?”

They're running from a space suit now. There’s a skeleton inside, stripped of its flesh and he really liked Anita. It ate her, but even when she was crying, she was brave. They’re always brave.

The only thing to do is run, just run. And that’s what they do. They have to run, have to hide but not in the shadows, the shadows that melt the flesh. River is running up ahead because he was too stupid to leave. He’s chasing after her, but he’s falling behind. His feet feel like lead and the shadows are getting closer, faces he can’t quite see, can't quite remember. But oh, they're a-coming. There’s tally marks etched into his skin and he opens his mouth to call for her, but he’s choking on the sound. How can he speak when the sound of her voice echoes in his ears, his name rolling off her tongue like a promise. Because there’s only one reason he’d ever tell anyone his name, only one time he could.

He stumbles and the shadows grab him, folding around him. He tries to struggle against the forces keeping them apart, against the darkness, the silence, the hands of the clock. But it’s useless. It closes in around him. His last thought is her name as River turns to face him and -

"What sort of time do you call this?" She’s all in black and the clock is frozen. It's 5:02 for all eternity. It’s 5:02 and the universe is cracking. It’s 5:02 and everything is happening at once and never at all. There’s a beacon on a pyramid because she understands the physics, and it’s almost certainly a trap. But what if it isn’t? He doesn’t know and she can’t remember and “Have I been here before?” Fractures in reality bite at his mind, but it’s only a headache. She hides hides hides the damage, even though it must hurt. “Yes, and the wrist is pretty bad, too.”

There are tears in her eyes as she stands before him, so beautiful and strong; and he has to touch her, needs to touch her so time can begin again. He has to die so the universe can live. But she’s hurting and he has to tell her, has to tell her everything. Because she _is_ everything. She’s the woman who saved him and he’s the man who married her, and they’re kissing in a pool of serenity at the center of the universe. It’s everything he wants, but it isn’t right, it isn’t fair. She deserves better.

She deserves more than a hurried ceremony and a shattered moment, a moment that should be theirs has been scattered across all of space and time. The caress of her lips, her finger on the trigger. The suit forces her hand while she relaxes into his embrace. All of reality is collapsing, being reset, and time is moving, ticking ever onward.

Tick tock goes the clock. But wait, it's not counting up, it's counting down. She wears a crown of thorns and he's helpless as the computer ticks away her seconds, numbers counting down down down to zero. Her life is ending right before his eyes and she’s slipping away, pulling away because “It didn’t mean anything anyway.” She hardly knows him and he has to get her memories back before he loses her forever, before time runs out and “There’s nothing you can do. 

He’s on the floor, handcuffed to a bar, metal biting into his wrist but he’s reaching, reaching for her. “River, please, no. Let me do this.” 

He stretches farther, toward the TARDIS this time. The poison is ravaging his body, burning his insides, and he can hardly move, hardly breathe. But Amy and Rory need him, and he needs River even though she’s still brand new. “River, please,” he whimpers, “Help me.”

Help me save you. Help me find you. Help me recover what we’ve lost. He has to find her, find River Song. It's his dying breath and he has to tell her.

Her hair tickles his cheek, a puff of laughter ghosting over his ear and, “I’m sure she knows.”

 

The Doctor’s eyes fly wide, hearts hammering in his chest and a cold sweat moistening his brow. He’s in his bedroom, but the safety of the TARDIS doesn’t feel like a balm. The four walls feel claustrophobic, smothering him with familiarity, with things they’ve seen, with memories and days that River no longer remembers, with moments he wants to share with her more than anything in the universe.

He imagines tearing them down, removing every obstacle separating them. He wonders what he would find if he could strip away the barriers between them. Is she as tormented as he is? Does she lie across the bed the way she always used to, legs tucked into a ball and hands folded beneath her pillow? If the rooms merged together, would their faces align mere inches from one another, side by side in the dark?

That’s all he really wants, for things to be like they used to. He wants to lay with her in the comfort of darkness, breathing in the air from her lungs. He wants to hold her in his arms so tight that he feels the rhythm of her hearts against his chest. He misses the silence, when they had no need for words because her love echoed his own in ways so pure it transcended physical language. He longs for days when he wanted for nothing, when they could tell stories with a glance and heal wounds with a gentle caress, when they made time their play thing, living hours in a single minute and crafting forever out of a finite number of days. 

He just misses her, even more so now that she’s so close. But hoping and dreaming and imagining won’t bridge the gap between them. It won’t fix the mess he’s made or bring back her memories; so he pushes his mournful nostalgia from his mind, kicking aside the covers as he makes to stand.

Above all else, he needs to leave the room, to clear his mind so he can focus on what is really important. Once they figure out who is after her and, more importantly, what they want, everything else will fall into place. He just needs to stop moping and focus long enough to figure it out.

Normally, a few laps in the pool would do the trick, but he doubts he’ll be going anywhere near a pool anytime soon. Maybe a nice cup of tea is in order. Maybe he just needs a few biscuits and something to sip on while he thinks things over. Maybe then he’ll have cleared his head enough to form a proper plan.

Resolve settles in his bones, his mind made up; and he’s about to throw on his vest and coat and head to the kitchen when he hears a soft click behind him. Reflexively, he spins around, and what he finds there nearly steals his breath.

Dressed all in white, River is standing in the doorway. She shifts, latching the door behind her. As she turns back, one of the thin straps slips off her shoulder. But she doesn’t bother to fix it, eyes finding his as she strides toward him in the dimly lit room. Light shimmers off the silky material as she sashays toward him, the fabric clinging to her hips with every step she takes. "River," The Doctor exhales, frozen in place. "What are you doing here?"

"Finishing what we started," she purrs in a way that makes him shiver, marching right up to him until they are toe-to-toe. Her hands find his chest, smoothing over his shirt until they can wind behind his neck.

The Doctor swallows, staring down at her dumbly as he says, “You mean…”

“Mmhm.” The smirk on her lips speaks of sin and when those lips plant a kiss at the base of his jaw, he almost melts at her feet.

“I thought we agreed to forget about it?” he asks weakly, fighting the urge to let his hands settle on her body.

River shrugs, nuzzling at the sensitive skin of his throat. “I changed my mind.”

“But… but earlier you said-"

She nips at him then, and he lets out a muffled squeak. “I know what I said,” River whispers, pulling back to look up at him. Her eyes are cloudy, but not just with lust. They are heavy with sentiment, with apology and regret. “I said it didn’t mean anything.”

He allows himself to relax into her embrace, his palms finally gravitating to her shoulders. She is soft and warm as he rubs his hands over her bare skin. “Did you mean it?” he breathes.

The look in her eyes flickers with mischief as she stands on her tippy toes, leaning into him to brush her lips against his ear. “Rule one,” she whispers before dragging the lobe through her teeth.

The Doctor can’t repress the shiver that runs through him, his brain instantly fuzzy as she leaves a trail of wet kisses under his jaw. His breath already ragged, hearts thundering in his chest because she’s in his _room,_ and he doesn’t know if he’ll have the strength to turn her away again, not knowing that she does actually care for him, that what she said before was a lie and - “Wait,” he gives a feeble protest. “I never told you about Rule on-"

The rest of the word is swallowed by River’s mouth as it covers his. It’s a slow kiss, sensual, as her tongue teases at his lips, her fingers slowly fisting in his hair. The Doctor’s hands find her hips out of habit; and when she deepens the kiss, her tongue massaging against his own, his hands slide to her lower back, fingers spreading as he pulls her closer. It doesn’t feel rushed and urgent like it had before. It isn’t a spark that will flicker and fade; it is an ember, burning hot and eternal. This is how it should be. It’s so much better knowing that she cares, that the lips he's kissing want to be kissing only him. His chest tightens as much as his belly and she deserves to feel this, too. She deserves to know.

With great difficulty, he manages to drag his mouth away from hers. “I have to tell you something,” he confesses with shaky breath.

“Tell me later,” she murmurs against his throat, fingernails toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. It makes him shudder and River hums, the sound of her voice luring him like a siren song. His fingers dig into her hips, eyes fluttering shut as she presses her body into his and-

“No, it has to be now,” he declares, his torso leaning away as his grip on her hips tightens. “I haven’t been completely honest with you about us, about who I am and… and why are you laughing?”

River is chuckling, a devious sparkle in those green eyes as she says, "Sweetie, _I know_."

The Doctor blinks down at her, dumbfounded. "You do?”

“Of course.” There’s such tenderness in her eyes, such acceptance and longing, that he knows he’s looking into the face of his wife. It’s a sight he’s seen a million times before: her lips softening from seduction into a sweet smile, the green of her eyes flickering to gold, and the sound of her voice like a psalm as she says, “I could never forget you, my love.”

“But,” he stutters, brain struggling to keep up and the only word he can seem to find is, “How?"

"I always know,” she says easily. Her eyes are laughing at him, fingers scraping against his scalp as she pulls him closer. “Now, shut up and kiss me.”

He means to protest, to ask questions, but then her mouth is on his and he forgets to care about anything else, about the hows and the whys and the whens. He chalks it up to one of her miraculous gifts, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he can. The soft curves of her body melt into his sharp angles, the taste of her on his tongue and the smell of her invading his senses. He pulls her ever closer, pressing his hips into hers. River moans against his mouth, hands fisting in his hair as the kiss grows desperate. Their tongues battle, the Doctor’s hands roaming her back as River arches into his touch. She rolls her hips against his in demand and the Doctor groans at the friction, grabbing her bum, tethering himself to the moment lest he float away from the bliss of it.

River is just as desperate, bringing her leg up over his hip, giving herself a better angle to grind down against him. The Doctor gasps at the sensation, seeing stars as white hot embers blaze in his belly, flames licking at his insides while tendrils of lust spread to every corner of his body. The hand on her bum squeezes in retaliation while the other finds the leg she slung over his hip. He starts at the bend of her knee, sliding up up up, fingers dragging along the back of her thigh.

River nips at his bottom lip punishingly, having no patience for his teasing as she throws her other leg over, wrapping around his hips like a vice. The Doctor squeaks into her mouth, trying to compensate for the extra weight. But he stumbles backwards, and together they tumble onto the bed.

He lands on top of her, pinning her body to the mattress, her muscled thighs holding him in place. River doesn’t waste any time, her frantic hands quickly riding him of his bow tie. But rather than toss it aside, she wraps it around her palm. It’s careful, a moment of tenderness amid heaving chests and needy mouths. The Doctor smiles down at her through his hair, made matted and messy by her kneading fingers. She smiles back, allowing him a moment to drink in the sight of her along with the knowledge that she really is back. His miracle. His wife. His River.

“Yours,” she breathes as she rolls her hips against his in encouragement.

He takes the hint, diving for her lips again, sucking and nibbling until they are swollen and red. River tears at his clothing, buttons from his shirt scattering and rolling to the floor. Her nails scratch across his collarbone, his chest, his naval. Down down down they travel, teasing at the sensitive skin of his belly until he shivers. The Doctor tears his mouth from hers to pant into her neck, retaliating against her teasing by nipping at her pulse point.

Her breath catches in her throat, both pleasure and pain shooing through her body simultaneously. River’s teasing fingers turn demanding, sliding around to his back to pull him closer. The Doctor obeys, pressing his body further against hers as one of his hands finds her thigh, fisting in her nighty and pushing it up up up until his hands caress across her warm, soft, glorious skin. Her nails dig into his flesh, her back arching into the touch and _Beep Beep._

His hand stalls in its path, momentarily distracted. But River keens, bucking her hips against him and the noise is forgotten in favor of the soft whine in the back of her throat. His hand continues its work, pushing the fabric up over her hip. But it protests, refusing to go as high as he'd like, and the Doctor lets out a low growl, tearing his mouth away from hers and getting to his knees. River’s brow furrows in confusion until he reaches for the hem of her nighty and tugs. The material gives way with a loud rip as he proceeds to tear the article in two.

River gasps at the sight of her ruined nighty but her eyes grow ever darker, arching herself towards him until the shredded silk falls to her sides, freeing her breasts from their silk prison. The Doctor remains on his knees, pupils blown wide at the sight of River spread out before him.

Her eyes lock with his as her fingers close around his wrist. “Please,” she whispers, guiding his hands to her body. It's not like her to beg. It's usually him who does the pleading, who is so very grateful for every brush of her skin. He’s no less eager now, a fervid need to explore her coursing through his veins. So when River whimpers, "Touch me," she doesn’t have to ask him twice.

The Doctor swallows hard, nodding wordlessly as his hands come to a rest on the soft skin of her stomach. It feels like the first time all over again, his fingers shaking as they ghost up her rib cage.

River doesn't see, throwing her head back, rendered helpless under the attention of his long fingers. They graze over her sternum, her flesh sprouting goose bumps in the wake of his warm hands. Finally, he reaches her breasts, cupping and squeezing in that rough way he knows she likes. River lets out a moan, low and guttural like he pulled it from somewhere deep inside. The sound makes his own insides clench and the Doctor rewards her by dipping his head and planting a kiss to her hip.

"God. Sweetie," River breathes, eyes fluttering shut, one of her hands fisting in the sheets while the other gently brushes the hair from his face.

“My River,” he mumbles into her skin, his tongue slipping out to run over the taut muscle. It's been too long since he tasted her salty sweet skin and felt her body writhe and squirm under his own, too long since her nails clawed at his back and her mouth cursed his name.

“Hurry up and get on with it, would you." She demands and the Doctor chuckles. He doesn't understand her urgency, her need for now now now, because they are no longer puppets of time, no longer bound by foreknowledge. From now on, they have forever laid out before them. But he's always been weak when it comes to giving her what she wants. So he gladly relents, lowering his head to drop another kiss on her belly, then another and another, kissing his way slowly downward just to make her squirm. She does, lifting her hips encouragingly. With every press of his lips, her whimpers grow louder and needier in anticipation, and he’s almost right where she wants him when - _Beep Beep._

Another chirping sound fills the air and the Doctor pauses, removing his mouth from her body. River groans her disapproval, taking matters into her own hands as she reaches for his belt. But the Doctor grabs her wrist, stilling her. "Did you hear that?"

“Hear what?” she asks, voice laced with frustration.

 _Beep Beep_. The mysterious noise sounds again and the Doctor sits up, suddenly alter. “That! That beeping.”

“Oh,” River shrugs. “It’s probably just the communicator.”

His eyes snap to the bedside table, where the device sits, screen alight in the dim lit room. It’s flashing something, some word, but he can’t quite make out what it says. It’s not the usual message of ‘out of range.’ It’s something else, but that can’t be right because - “We’re inside the TARDIS.” He gapes, looking back to River. “How is that even possible?”

River’s hands fall away from his, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "It isn't."

"Then how..?" He trails off, confused, and River laughs that all-knowing laugh that always makes him dizzy.

"Oh, Doctor,” she coos, teasing him like he’s missed some grand joke. “You didn't think this was real did you?" Her eyes bore into his, half concerned, half mocking, and his stomach drops because he doesn’t _understand_. What does she mean? If it’s not possible, then how is it beeping and what does she mean this isn’t real and -

_Beep Beep_

"Better hurry, sweetie,” River whispers. “Time is running out."

 

He jolts awake again, a wrench clattering to the floor and the ceiling swaying back and forth. No, no, not the ceiling, the swing. He's in the work swing beneath the TARDIS console. He must have dozed off while working on the Old Girl, which means he was never in his room. There was no miracle. River doesn't remember him. It was all just a dream.

All along, he's been here, goggles resting cockeyed on his forehead, sleeves rolled up, and jacket hanging over the railing. The communicator sits beside him, lifeless as always while they drift along the vortex. The TARDIS hums comfortingly around him, assuring him that he's awake this time. The Doctor pinches himself just to be sure. When nothing happens, he drags a hand across his face, giving himself a mental shake. The restless sleep did nothing but exhaust him further and tease him with miracles, with far flung hopes and reminders of everything he's currently having to do without.

He blames the last time he slept, when he was curled up next to her. He blames how warm and right it felt to be near her once again. He thinks about kissing her in the pools, about how he can still feel the chill of the water and the ache in his soul. He thinks about how empty and awful he felt when she pulled away. How crushing it always used to be when they said their goodbyes, and how she always took a piece of him with her when she left.

Even now, he's all too aware of the hollow bit inside him that can only be filled by her. He does his best to ignore it. But the dreams are still fresh in his mind, and he can't quite shake the feeling they left behind. They rattled him, dug down deep inside and nagged at the part of his subconscious he's been trying to ignore. He can't ignore the realization that she's still no more attainable than she ever was. That, in a way, he's always been reaching for her. Since the beginning, the secrets he held have always kept her at arm’s length. That even now, time  _is_  running out. The hands of the clock are working against him. Seconds are ticking by, each one pushing her further and further away. Secrets are piling up, driving a wedge between them. Spoilers are digging him a hole that no amount of excuses will be able to pull him out of.

Suddenly he feels the need to stand and stretch his cramped limbs. His feet itch for movement, for a destination. Well, one destination in particular, but he can’t go there. River's almost assuredly asleep, and after what happened in the pools it wouldn’t be appropriate to crawl into bed with her now. He supposes the physical rapport between them has been compromised, too. The intimacy, the casual touches and teasing ended the second her body detangled from his. 

It hurts, taking such a giant leap back when he was just rediscovering how wonderful it felt for her fingers to entwine with his. But it’s his own fault for getting too comfortable, for falling into old habits, for kissing her with every ounce of his being and then turning her away without proper reason or explanation.

It hurts that, if even for one second, he made her feel incomplete, that she thinks he rejected her because she wasn’t enough. He wishes he could explain, that he could tell her she’s still every ounce the woman he fell in love with, still just as strong and stubborn and stunning as she always has been. A part of him wants to. He wants to storm into her room and tell her that she is amazing with or without her memories, that he’ll love her even if she never gets them back. He wants to tell her that everything he's done has been for her, that he wanted to give her a choice, that he needed to know that she wanted him no matter what. That a part of him wanted to know he wasn't just an obligation, that she would choose him the way he’s chosen her. Because he does choose her, in any form, always and completely, against all the odds and with every fiber of his being because nothing else matters and…

It doesn't matter.

Her lack of memories doesn't matter, and his dreams made him realize that he's  _tired_. He's tired of secrets and half truths. He's tired of hiding his feelings. He's tired of biding his time and waiting on a miracle that may never come.

He’s an idiot because her lack of memories doesn't matter; and yet, he’s been treating her like they do. He's been waiting for them to return to be with her. She thinks he rejected her because she’s incomplete because that’s exactly what he’d done. He pushed her away because she couldn’t remember their past. In his fear of losing her, he let her slip away. All along he’s been a fool, because he doesn’t want to wait to hold her in his arms again. He doesn't want the air between them to be filled with words they don't say. He can't handle the look in her eyes that says she's not enough. He doesn't want to see her with her walls up, guarded, hiding. And if he doesn’t fix this now, that is what they will become, awkward silences and half finished sentences and smiles that don't reach their eyes. He owes her answers after what happened; and not giving them means losing her. It means watching her slip away with every moment he doesn't confess his hearts.

He wants to be with her even if she doesn't get her memories back, even if he has to fill in the blanks himself, tell her their story from start to finish, and recount every adventure they’ve ever had. He thinks she wants that, too. He thinks that kiss meant something to her, that she’s already on her way to loving him again, and that’s all he ever wanted really, to know that she would choose him no matter what.

He has to stop expecting her to figure it out, to just _know_. He has to stop waiting for a miracle when there's already one in front of him. He has to stop relying on the past and go build a future. He has to tell her what she means to him, what they are to each other, before he loses her completely.

He has to tell her everything. It’s now or never.


	15. The Penny Drops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this took ages to get out. Sorry. But on the bright side, it's my goal to have this finished before December! Which should be doable since, as of now, there are only three chapters left. Possibly four depending on how many of you fancy a smutty chapter ;) 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading/commenting and thanks again to Cassie for putting off her school work to beta for me lol

 

"The truth is like a lion; you don’t have to defend it. Let it loose; it will defend itself.” - St Augustine

* * *

 

“I love you,” The Doctor blurts to the open air. “And I don’t mean that lightly, not in the way that people so often do, in that off-handed, just about to walk out the door or hang up the phone everyday use of the words. I mean it in the way those words are meant to be said: as a promise. It isn’t a flight of fancy; it’s unconditional. So when I say that I love you, first and foremost, let it be known that everything I’ve done has been driven by that thought. Because that’s what I was doing, River, thinking of you, what was best for you and-

“No,” he shakes his head, starting again. “Not what was best for you. What you would  _want._ What you would have done in my shoes, which is give me a choice. And that’s all I was trying to do, give you a choice. But then, why am I telling you now, you ask? Because it’s impossible for you to choose unless you know everything. So here it is, River Song, the truth.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath before exhaling everything that's been bottled up inside him. “I’m a Time Lord, one who hasn’t always made the best choices. I’ve seen civilizations burn, and I’ve made a lot of enemies. Your upbringing, the one you can’t remember, is a byproduct of my mistakes. You were raised as a weapon to bring me down, but you didn’t. You saw good in me. You trusted me even though you only knew me by my failures. You saved me the very first day you met me and you never ever stopped. You saved me from monsters and demons and nights spent alone. The thought of you saved me long after I thought you were gone, and you save me still. Just by breathing, you keep me alive. I’d be lost without you because… because you are my wife. You are my friend. You’ve seen all the bad that lurks inside me, but what’s more is you bring out the good.

“And I should have told you how I felt from the start. I’m sorry I never explained, but I couldn’t. What we have is beyond words. It transcends speech and I’m sorry, so sorry that I let this happen, that you can’t remember what we were. I’m sorry for hurting you, for everything. But if you’ll let me, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll show you what we were, what we can be. I’ll paint it across nebulas and weave it into the fabric of existence and shout it into the abyss, across every moment of space and time until the entire universe knows that there’s never been a love like ours. I’ll give you everything, every fiber of my being, and even though I know it’s not enough, I hope you’ll choose it anyway. I’ll tell you everything. Not all of our past is pretty, but it’s ours and we’ve overcome it before. We can do it again, and we can find whoever is after you and we can  _fix_  all of this. Together, we can do anything."

The Doctor lets out a long exhale, chest lighter and confidence settling in his bones. Yes, that’s what he’ll say to her. He’ll find her and press his lips to hers before she can utter a word. He’ll kiss her for all he’s worth and when he pulls away, that’s what he’ll tell her. And he’ll say it again and again until she listens because he hasn’t come this close just to lose her again.

And she’s River. She’ll understand. She always understands.

Rounding the corner, he sees her door. It looms, imposing at the end of the hall. The Doctor gulps, straightening his shoulders and tugging at his lapels as he readies himself to march to her door. His first step is a heavy one, but it feels good. The promise of honesty, of finally being free of spoilers, pulls him forward. Left, right, left, right, one foot in front of the other, and with every passing step he feels lighter, giddy. It’s not like his dream at all. His feet aren’t lead and she’s not out of reach. She’s just beyond this door and why didn’t he do this sooner?

He stops in front of her door, straightening his bow tie one last time before he knocks softly on the wooden surface. Not surprisingly, there’s no answer. “River,” he says quietly, knocking again. “Please open the door. I need to talk to you.”

Silence follows, and he sighs. “I know you’re angry and confused and you have every right to be. I’m an idiot, the king of idiots. But I need you to trust me.” He expects her to shout or possibly throw something. But there's nothing. He knocks once more, an edge of begging creeping into his tone as he says, “Just once more, and I’ll never ask anything from you ever again.”

Still, he’s met with nothing, not a sound, no stirring of covers or padding of feet as she makes her way to greet him. Defeated, he lets out a breath, his forehead pressing against the door. But when he leans against the wood, it gives slightly, opening a fraction of an inch like it hadn’t been latched closed at all.

“River?” The Doctor’s brow furrows as he pushes open the door, peaking inside. The room is empty, the bed sheets hardly touched. An edge of panic licks at his insides and he has to force himself not to jump to conclusions. As far as he knows, the manipulator is still broken and the communicator and thumb drive sized beacon still sit safely in his pocket. So she can’t have gone after them alone. Besides, the TARDIS wouldn’t just let her leave at a time like this without giving him some warning. His ship hums in agreement and he allows himself a deep breath. She’s still on board. She isn’t gone. There’s still time.

He sets off down the corridor, trusting the ship to guide him to where he needs to be. He weaves around one corner and then another, his casual stroll morphing into a brisk walk. He passes the pool and the cricket pitch and the kitchen and before he knows it, he’s running, zipping past room after room. He’s about to start questioning whose side his ship is on when he hears the distinct sound of laughter. The Doctor pauses, listening. At first, there’s nothing. Silence rings in his ears, void of all sound, save his slightly panting breathes. The stillness stretches on and he's about to resign himself to having imagined it when  _there_! There it is again.

Laughter rings out again, bouncing off the empty walls in such an eerie fashion he almost doesn't place it until it takes a turn towards Scottish. The sound of Amelia’s voice echoes through the halls. It’s rich and young and familiar, even if he can’t quite make out the words she’s saying. He takes a step back, following the sound down the corridor until he comes to an abrupt stop.

The sounds are emanating from the TARDIS library.

It’s dark beyond the threshold, nothing to see but dimly lit shelves and a stairwell that seems to go on for miles. He doesn’t want to step inside, but another chorus of laughter cuts through the darkness and he knows he doesn’t have a choice. Stepping inside, he finds row upon row of bookcases are cast in shadow, and a familiar sense of dread tingles in the back of his mind. Light flickers from somewhere near the back of the room, a ghostly glow illuminating the darkness. He follows it the way a moth does the flame, compelled despite the feeling that what he finds will surely burn him.

Rory’s voice fills the darkness like a long-forgotten phantom, and the Doctor’s hearts stutter like kick drums, briefly wondering if he’s still asleep, still caught up in bad memories and unattainable dreams. The sound of his own voice answers his question for him, floating to his ears and joining the melody of voices; and… he remembers this conversation, this day.

  _“I wasn’t going to sell you.” Amy rolls her eyes in exasperation while Rory’s nearly bug out of his head._

  _"_ _She asked. You hesitated! That sounds like you were thinking about it.”_

  _The ginger gives a halfhearted shrug. “I just wanted to see how much I could get.”_

  _“You mustn’t take offense, Rory,” The Doctor chimes in. “In their culture it’s actually quite the compliment. How was she to know you weren’t for sale?”_

  _“Uh, maybe because I said I was Amy’s husband, and not her man slave?”_

  _With a smirk, Amy leans in to plant a kiss to Rory’s cheek. “There isn’t much of a difference.”_

He remembers explaining the customs of some of the more eccentric species. He remembers a crowded university and River giving a speech in front of her graduating class. He remembers sitting in the front row, the Ponds wiping at their cheeks and pretending not to cry. The Doctor remembers wearing a ridiculous cone party hat and balancing the camera in his hands, capturing every moment of the wonderful day on film. He’d forgotten he had this, the old home movie just another ghost he’d tucked away in the belly of his ship. Another echo of a Pond left waiting in a library.

The phantom voices grow louder and memories more vibrant with every step he takes. He winds down a forgotten aisle, chasing the flickering light that shines in the gaps between hardcovers and paperbacks. Gliding around a final bookshelf, the Doctor finds himself on the outskirts of a large, open room. At the center lies a sofa, and on that sofa he sees River. Her back is to him, but her form is silhouetted, her hair made into a halo by the light from the hologram projector hung in the corner. The home movie on display chases shadows into far corners of the room, dancing with images and singing with voices. Another River stands on the screen before him. This one is much younger and adorned in robes. 

_Her arms are bogged down with awards and certificates and Amy fusses around her, adjusting the tassel that hangs off the corner of her hat._

_“Amy, I really don’t think this is neces-“_

_“Oi,” the ginger squeaks. “That’s mum to you. And it is absolutely necessary.”_

_River casts a pleading look toward Rory, but the Roman simply shakes his head. “Sorry kiddo. I’m on her side.”  She gives a huff that is every bit the frustrated child, exasperated and embarrassed by her parents, and the Doctor can’t help but smile, a warm feeling spreading though his chest._

_“Do I have to wear the hat?” River grimaces, glaring at the tassel that keeps falling in her eyes._

_“Yes, Melody, you have to wear the hat." Amy answers in a stern voice, playing her part as reasonably overbearing mum perfectly. Then sweetly, she adds, "Just make your ol' mum happy once more, yeah? Then you can throw it away. Or shoot it. Or both. Your choice." It’s a simple exchange, but it seems to make River smile. As much as she enjoys putting up a front, River secretly relishes moments like this. She always has._

_“You see that?” The Doctor chimes in, “Just do what you’re told and everyone will have a lot more fun.”_

_River’s eyes snap to his, honing in on him mischievously, and the Doctor instantly wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. “Funny, I said the same thing to you just last week. Right before I got out the handcuff-“_

_“River!” his voice squeaks from behind the camera, his cheeks blushing furiously. River merely smirks while Rory shoots him a look that borders somewhere between a death glare and disgust. Clearing his throat the Doctor tactfully changes the subject. “Alright Ponds. Enough chit chat. Gather round so I can take a picture.”_

_“I thought we were videoing.” Amy frowns, making room for Rory to squeeze in next to River._

_“We are,” The Doctor scoffs._

" _Then how are we-“ Rory starts, “You know what? Never mind.”_

 _The Doctor grins up at his three favorite humans and says, “Okay ,everybody say ‘_ _Raxacoricofallapatorius!’”_

 

The image on the screen pauses, the three of his Ponds smiling brightly at the camera. But the happy nostalgia supplied to him dissipates the moment the video cuts off and oppressive silence fills the air.  The Doctor stands stock still, afraid to move or breathe. But River must sense the intrusion, keeping her eyes fixed forward as her voice fills the open room.

"I remember this day,” she admits, soft yet purposeful. Her tone wavers, voice a little too flat and a little too cold.  “It’s the day I graduated. It's also the day I was arrested for murder. I remember the holding cell they put me in, how cold the concrete was, and how it smelled vaguely metallic and stale. I remember thinking that I should be terrified, but I wasn’t. I walked right up to the guard outside my cell and asked when they were going to bring ‘round tea.”

River pauses, a nostalgic chuckle falling from her lips, a little bit of warmth finding its way into her voice as she continues her tale. “Bless him, he was so nervous. His name was Max and I spent the first hour teaching him how to sing the Qualdorian birth song so he could perform it at his daughters 5th birthday party.” She stalls again, her expression turning grave as she nods to the projection. “But I don’t remember that.”

There’s something in her voice, something not quite right. It makes him hesitant, the stutter in his pulse warning him to tread carefully. A flick of her wrist tells him she’s toying with something in her hands, but it's shrouded in shadow, just out of view. His eyes follow the movement, but he can’t quite make it out. The Doctor steps further into the room, walking around to the side, where he can see her more clearly. Her figure is no longer silhouetted by the artificial light. Instead, it bathes her in a fluorescent glow, a spectrum of ghostly hues highlighting her tired, expressionless face.

“I don't remember this either,” she speaks again, lifting her hand to reveal what she'd been holding. It's a book, one of hers to be specific, written a lifetime ago. “I thought reading something I’d written might help fill a few gaps.” She pauses again and his feet slow, the tension in the air making him forget how to do anything but stare. "It's about the man I killed," she admits with a shockingly even tone and he feels his stomach drop to the floor. "Or didn't kill as the case may be." Beneath the pounding in his ears, he can hear the soft shuffling of pages. “I was beginning to think I was a nutter, until I noticed I was good enough to illustrate it. And as it turns out, I'm a pretty good artist.” 

The book drops to the table with a heavy thud, and the Doctor's eyes follow the sound to find the book open to a very accurately drawn picture of the TARDIS. When his gaze finally strays back to River, he finds her face hardened, expressionless, cold. Her eyes are ice, betraying no more emotion than her voice as she says, “Who are you, really? Are you John, the blushing boy that wanted to show me the stars? Or are you the man I killed, the warrior, legend, and ageless God?” 

He parts his lips, mouth suddenly dry as he tries to find the will to speak. But it's hard to form words when it feels like he's swallowed a planet. “Would you believe me if I told you I was both?” he finally manages and River huffs out a condescending laugh.

“I'm not sure I believe anything you say anymore.” He hears it in her voice, the hurt, the betrayal, the veil being lifted on the ruse. John smith, the lie that he let build and build between them, that had once wrapped around them and brought them together is now shattering like fine china on a stone floor. As he breathes in the thick air, silence settles like ash in his lungs. He can feel everything they built crumbling into dust. “Why? Why did you keep this from me?”

"I.." His voice wavers under the pressure of words, cracking like a twig on cold autumn ground. "I wanted you to figure it out on your own. I didn't want to pressure or confuse you with any preconceived-“

“Well you did a bang up job, because I'm pretty bloody confused!” He lets her words silence him. Anger creases the lines around her lips. Distrust rages like a river behind her eyes and a trace of fear cracks deep in those shinning emerald orbs. "Just tell me,” she starts again, a practiced calm. “Is it true? Are you the man I went to prison for killing?”

“River-“

“Is. It.  _True_ _?_ ” She bites out. “Yes or no?”

This wasn't how this was supposed to go; and he swallows against a dry throat, working his jaw and rolling the truth behind his lips like a clam trying to forge pearls out of sand. "Yes, it's true." He has no choice but to admit it, leaving the words to dance around him like fireflies. A spark of deceit, a flash of deception, shining spots of truth caught up in the web of lies that exist between them. "But there's more to it than that. You weren't supposed to find out like this."

The Doctor watches helplessly as River's eyes close, rolling back against the impact of his admission. This is exactly what he feared, what he knew would happen, what  _always_  happens. Eventually the facade of the man they think he is always crumbles to the ground, his defenses gone. The truth laid bare. Just him, and he always lets them down. 

“I suppose I was just supposed to blindly go along until you got whatever it is you wanted from me.”

He shakes his head. “It's not like that. I didn’t want anything from you.”

“Didn't you?” Her head whips around to face him, her fierce eyes meeting his for the first time. The truth he finds in them cuts him to his core, because honestly, he didn't want just anything. He wanted what she's always freely given. He wanted everything.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he confesses instead, and River scoffs, getting to her feet.

"No, just manipulate me. But to what end? Was it revenge or just for sport?" Her words sizzle and sting at the air, the bite in her tone nothing but venom. 

He keeps his eyes locked onto hers. “Don't do this, River." The Doctor takes a step toward her and River takes half a step back, lips curling like she wants to hiss, like she's a cornered animal that might bite him. Then again, maybe it's the predator in him she shies away from. Maybe it's the silver in his tongue and venom in his touch she fears. He remains still, palms forward in surrender. "Just think about it for a second. I’m obviously not dead. Why would I want revenge?”

“Why would you lie if you had nothing to hide?” she snaps back and he lets out a calming sigh, steeling his nerves.

"This is all just a very complicated misunderstanding.”

“Then  _un-_ complicate it.” River barks in a tone that makes even him flinch. She speaks like a pot about to boil over, trying desperately to tamper her emotions before she burns them both. Her hands ball into fists, and he can't really tell if she's angrier at his deception or her own vulnerability. 

“You’re angry. I don’t think this is the best time to-“

“Damn right, I’m angry. I don’t know who you are!” she shouts, her resolve finally cracking. He needs to talk, and quickly before her fight evolves into flight, before she does what they always do, before she runs away.

“In few words, plain and simple... I’m a Time Lord, yes. I go by the name the Doctor and I have a magic box that's bigger on the inside that I use to travel the stars. I like custard on my fish fingers and dancing at weddings and yes, I'm the man you went to prison for killing. But I'm also," he pauses, taking a deep breath in hopes of inhaling the courage he needs to say the words he's longed to say since she first found her way back into his life. "I'm your husband." 

River says nothing for a moment. But her silence isn't stunned; it's incredulous. "Oh, well of course," she jeers with sarcasm so corrosive it could eat through even the most resilient base metals. “That explains everything. Who doesn’t murder their husband and then write a book about it?”

“It didn’t necessarily happen in that order. But, like I said, it’s complicated.”

“If you say that word one more time I’m going to shoot you.”

“Right, sorry. Okay, you pretended to kill me so the universe wouldn’t end, but really we got married.”

“Do you hear yourself when you speak?” River sneers, and the Doctor fidgets under her stare. 

Even to him this sounds ridiculous. He wants to step toward her, to run his hands along her arms, to fold her into his embrace and press a kiss to her forehead. He wants to comfort her, make her listen. But it's too late for that. He doesn't dare step closer. She's watching his every move like he's volatile or venomous. She regards him like the very words he breathes are poison, but he has to try, he has to make her listen. "I know it sounds insane. It is insane. But the man you saw at Asgard, the man from the picnic who couldn’t keep his eyes off you, that was me. I’m a Time Lord, just like the book says. I can change my face and if you keep looking in that book I’m sure you’ll find pictures of them all.”

She’s shaking her head, eyes refusing to look into his. “You told me my husband was gone."

“I know.” He gives a mournful sigh. "I let you believe that because I wanted to see if you would choose me."

“So I was an experiment?” River spits the words out in a rush, like they've left a bitter taste on her tongue and she can't purge her body of it quickly enough. 

"No! I was only doing what I thought was best," he protests, but his words are lost, nothing more than the feeble voice of a drowning man shouting into a hurricane.

“What about all that stuff with my parents? In that video you called us ‘Ponds’. They called me _Melody!_ How is withholding the fact that River Song isn’t even my real name what’s best for me? Has anything you’ve said or done been real?”

“Of course it has! It sounds bad, I know. But everything I did, I did with the best intentions. You have to believe me.” He's pleading now, voice hinging on desperation as he takes a compulsive step toward her. She doesn't back away this time, too rooted to the ground by her anger. But he can feel it, the descent, the downwards spiral, grasping at air as she drifts further away. She hears him but she isn't listening, not anymore. The room is too thick with misdirection, lies tangled up in the impossible truth and her trust in him exhausted and burnt to cinders on the floor.

"Believe you?" she snaps. "Every word out of your mouth has been a lie!”

A small table fills the space the space between them, and he's sure if it weren't for its presence he would have crumbled to his knees before her long ago. “I never lied. I just didn’t always tell you the truth."

“Is there a difference?!”

“I meant every word I said. I may have just left out a few details.”

“Those details being?”

“I love you.” It slips out in a breath of declaration. It's not the best time to say it. He shouldn't use it as a defense, as the putty to hold his crumbling argument together. But 'I love you' has always been one of those subtle details, the fine print they both over looked. It simply existed within their beings, never needing explanation or verbalization. But he says it now with surprising ease. He exhales it with every ounce of meaning and connotation that comes with those words, and yet, his confession falls on deaf ears.

"You love me?" River parrots, snarling at him like his words are blasphemy. "Oh well that clears everything up. You love me so much you lied at every turn, about everything. You had the truth all along and you-“

“Yes! I love you enough to lie to you.” He finally cracks, desperation slipping off his own tongue, the need for her to understand thundering in his chest. When he speaks again, it's softer, gentler. "We always have. But we lie because we have to, never because we want to."

River gives a derisive snort, eyes finally breaking from his to focus on her belt. “Well it doesn't sound like something I want to be a part of.” She's finally had enough, bristling with something so much more volatile and dangerous than anger. Even her hands tremble slightly as they dig through her belt. Whether it's from frustration or disgust, he isn't sure.

But it's the sight of a brown strap emerging from her pocket that makes his pulse skip. It's her vortex manipulator and he panics, finally gaining the guts to round the table. "What are you doing?"

“Leaving,” she answers flatly, strapping the device to her wrist as she turns to march away. 

The Doctor follows hot on her heels, stumbling after her as she weaves through the book shelves. “You’re angry. You want to be alone. I get it. But you can’t just leave!”

“Don’t patronize me.” River scowls, not even looking at him as she types into the device. “I can do whatever I like.”

“You’re being rash! Have you even fixed that thing yet?”

“It’s fixed enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“To get away from you!” River shouts, and the Doctor visibly flinches.

“River, no. Please don’t run. Not this time.” He implores, grabbing her arm and stilling her wrist. At his touch, she spins around, her free hand colliding with his jaw. Her palm print stings his flesh and for a moment they simply stare at one another. Releasing the hold on her wrist, he stands there, stunned and rubbing at his cheek, the aftermath of her touch burning him in the most literal way. But in the stillness, evidence of the pain he’s inflicted on her can be found on her face, too. She's fuming, cheeks flushed and dragging deep breathes in through her nose, a bull seeing red. There are tears in her eyes, angry and hurt and he can’t do a thing about it. 

Letting out a breath, he continues, "I know you're scared. But never-"

"I am not scared!" she interrupts. “You don’t get it, do you? You sugar coated every experience we've ever had. The man standing before me isn’t the man I thought I knew. What you gave me was a fairytale, a lie!”

"No, no, no, River, it's not a lie. Those books, those are just words, just history. It's not me.  _John. The Doctor_. Titles don't matter. The man you danced with in the caves, the one that held you while you slept and made you your favorite breakfast the first morning we were together...the one you kissed, the one you just knew was in love with you. That's me,” he pleads. “Those weren't lies.”

She blinks up at him, her soft, even tone matching his own. "And the man who told me my husband was gone, who knew I was being hunted and said nothing, who knew I was falsely imprisoned and still let me believe I'd killed a man, who had all the answers and held his tongue, who said there wasn't anything in this for him, who looked me in the eyes and promised me there was nothing else he was keeping from me... Is that you too?”

Her voice wavers only slightly, like she wishes it weren’t true, that he would deny it. But he doesn’t, and he offers no apologies either. She wouldn’t want them anyway. And he refuses to give them because being sorry for one thing meant being sorry for it all; and regretting her, that was something he could never bring himself to feel. But the distance between them has never been greater. The few inches separating them may as well be an unbridgeable canyon, she a stormy sky and he a desert floor that would never see rain. “I wanted to do things right by you, to give you a choice. I wanted to know that you would choose me, even now, no matter what.  Is that so selfish?”

Her voice is quiet when she speaks, like if it were any louder it would crack. “No, no it isn’t. But I was alone and I trusted you. And even if what you say is true, you still manipulated me. You didn't give me a choice, you used what you knew against me, knowing just what to say and just where to take me. You knew everything, all along you had all the answers and you kept them from me. You used what you knew and you tricked me into-” She exhales a shaky breath, looking away. “Whatever I may have felt, it wasn't for you.” Her eyes break away from his, falling to her vortex manipulator where she begins typing once again.

He should let her walk away, let her finally be free of him. He should give her that. He  _knows_  that is the selfless thing to do. He knows that despite his good intentions, all he's succeeded in doing is hurt her. It should be enough for him that she's still alive, that he can feel her in his veins, that the memory of her is still fresh in his mind, her essence still brightening his soul. It should be enough that she's already given him more than he ever deserved. But all he does is take take take. He's looking at her now, her angry eyes filled with mistrust, and all he wants to do is take a little bit more. 

“River, please, I can't lose you again,” he starts, and her eyes, harsh and determined, snap back to his.

“That was never your decision to make.” A mechanism engages, and she’s gone, replaced by a bright flash of light and a thin cloud of smoke.


	16. Like Thunder Chasing Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys. I got hit by a pretty nasty dose of writer's block. But I'm back now! Anyway, hope everyone had a fun Halloween! Feel free to tell me all about your nerdy/spooky/awesome costumes in the comments section. :)

"I have not always chosen the safest path. I've made my mistakes, plenty of them. I sometimes jump too soon and fail to appreciate the consequences. But I've learned something important along the way: I've learned to heed the call of my heart. I've learned that the safest path is not always the best path and I've learned that the voice of fear is not always to be trusted." - Steve Goodier

* * *

 

It takes him a moment to realize that she's gone, blinking at the empty air like he's never laid eyes on a sight so puzzling. It’s surreal, time passing in slow motion as his brain catalogs his surroundings with pinpoint accuracy. The space before him is vacant, revealing the TARDIS’ grey, hexagonal halls. The air is crisp, fried and slightly fuzzy, collapsing in to fill the hole left in River’s wake. The hollow air smells of static and time and a fading hint of honey, all those fine, insignificant details adding up to a scene he's witnessed so many times before. River, gone, hiding the damage, running away.

The Doctor inhales deeply, breathing in her absence.  His mind is made up before the oxygen even reaches his lungs. He’s going after her.

With a pivot and a flick of his coat, the Doctor leaps into action, sprinting toward the exit and down the hall. He has no way of knowing when or where she’s gone, but the TARDIS will. The Old Girl always knows where he needs to be, and he’s never needed to be anywhere as much as he needs to be with River right now. The TARDIS must agree because he feels the hall contract, the distance between him and his destination diminishing significantly. Hearts thumping in his chest and feet pounding on the floor, he doesn't stop until he reaches the control room. He’s panting and breathless when he skids around the console, throwing the machine into gear so fast the ship groans in protest.

“Sorry, Old Girl,” he offers, stroking the metal paneling in apology. “Help me find her,” he tries again imploringly. “She left from in here; you must have read her mind. Come on, you sexy thing. Where’d she go?”

There’s a hum and a flicker, and suddenly the ship jolts to life, nearly knocking him sideways. The Doctor clings to the levers, body filled with nothing but adrenaline and the overwhelming need to make this right. His eyes are focused and determined, his grin manic, and his hearts beating out a tattoo. They’re still in flight, only just beginning to land when he makes a mad dash for the exit. He reaches for the doors, ready to throw them open and dive head first into whatever trouble may be awaiting him in whatever foreign place she’s led him to. The ship stutters to a halt, singing to him in anticipation. An ever-growing sense of urgency building inside him as light reflects off the pulsing glass mechanism at the heart of the console.

_The room around him is bathed in red warning lights. Alarms blare, but it’s all just noise to him. Flashes and sirens only minor distractions as his focus narrows in on the display screen before him. To be quite honest, he’s not even sure how he found himself here on the planet of the overambitious scientists with their highly unstable reactor core that’s about to blow this rock into a new orbit. Personally, he blames River. But she’ll no doubt find a way to pin the fault on him in the future. She usually does when their dinner plans take a turn towards perilous. And it seems the severity of this particular date has skipped right past sensible fun and barreled straight into disaster._

_The reactor’s levels are rising at an alarming rate. Hazard. Warning. Danger. **Critical**. In a desperate attempt to cool the reactor’s core, he floods secondary compartments and powers down sub-sectors and seals off the base’s control room. But none of it makes a damn bit of difference. His efforts remain in vain, his struggles utterly useless as the levels continue to climb higher and higher._

_Sparks burst over-head and the display screen flickers, the building’s contingency protocol seeing fit to take matters into its own hands. A countdown sequence has begun. “Imminent overload,” the system warns him. “30 seconds to self-destruct.”_

_Tampering down his rising panic, the Doctor’s hands fly to the keys, working overtime to override the countdown._

_27 seconds. He tries the security codes first, but hacking them proves ineffective. A system bypass is his next attempt, also birthing no results._

_23 seconds. Finally, he endeavors to throw the countdown into a loop by overriding the mainframe. Another longshot that proves unsuccessful._

_19 seconds left and nothing’s changed. Eleven seconds spent; eleven seconds wasted! He can’t drain the power or corrupt the generators or reroute the sensors. He’s running out of options. He’s running out of time._

_18 seconds._

_The Doctor stares on in awe of the realization that there’s_ _only one thing left to do, just one thing that might work. 16 seconds left and it’s a 50/50 shot, but it’s the only shot he has. His last line of defense against certain death._

_The only hope of stopping it is to cut the reactor off at the source, leaving two possible outcomes. Best case, cutting off the main generator will shock the circuits enough to allow it to stabilize. Worse case, it triggers an overload and the whole planet burns._

_The Doctor’s eyes flick past the screen to River. She’s at the control grid, frantically adjusting settings, trying to bring the temperature down. But her efforts are fruitless now. In 13 seconds this place will be burnt to ash no matter what she does._

_“River,” he barks, tongue acting of its own volition. It’s a split second decision, but he has to get her out of here. He has to keep her safe. “I need you to go back to the TARDIS and get me the calibrator.”_

_Her brows crease into a frown, her eyes never leaving her task at hand. “Can’t you use your sonic?”_

_“No. It has to be the calibrator,” he states firmly, but he can already sense the rebuttal on her tongue. 11 seconds._

_“But this is a type Z813 reactor. A sonic shou-“_

_“River!” he snaps, perhaps fiercer than he should, because River jolts at the sound of his voice. “For once in your life will you please just do as you are told!”_

_8 seconds. Her mouth bobs, taken aback by his harsh tone, but her surprise lasts less than a heartbeat before she does as he requested. 7 seconds. River turns and bolts for the TARDIS. Orange warning lights flicker around her, distorting her image as she approaches the ship. 4 seconds. She steps inside, the door latching behind her. 3 seconds. The Doctor reaches for the cord. 2 seconds. He closes his eyes and cuts._

The Doctor leaves the pulsing lights behind, ready for anything as he swings open the door of his ship. But rather than a strange new world, he’s met with the sight of River’s home, her bedroom, to be exact. The familiar scene momentarily stuns him. He hadn’t expected somewhere he could easily track her, somewhere she’d know he would think to come looking for her. It’s not like her at all to choose somewhere so predictable. So why now? Why would she come here?

It’s then that the scent of static assaults his sense, making everything oh so clear. The tickle of time energy in the air tells him he's already too late. She must have anticipated the TARDIS reading her mind. She knew he’d try to follow her, so she used this as a pit stop, a lay-over for her final destination. She really is far too clever for her own good. 

He’ll never be able to find her now. There’s no way of knowing where she is, _when_ she is. She could be anywhere, lost to time and space, running from him. This isn’t right, and it certainly isn’t how things should be.

He feels heavy and hollow at the same time, continuously robbed of something that had never fully been his to begin with. _Hope_. He dares to dream of keeping River, of living in a universe where time really can be rewritten, where second chances never come too late, and miracles do exist. When he first saw River in that hospital bed, he thought he’d found all three. But it was just an illusion, a mirage, an echo, an almost. Keeping her is still just as intangible an idea as it’s always been.

The need to touch something of hers, to tether himself to her in some minute way, pulls him to her bed. His fingers stroke and swirl over the velvety soft covering before he gives in entirely and takes a seat on the foot of the bed. The mattress gives under his weight, the frame creaking softly in protest. Hands folding nervously over his lap, the Doctor stares blankly around at the contents of the room.

River’s home is eerily quiet without her presence. The absence of her heightening how empty and undisturbed her room is. It highlights just how much she takes with her when she goes, draining the light and laughter and leaving behind nothing of importance, just scattered dust and fried neutrino particles. Her physical things still reside here, of course. Her favorite dresses and shoes and books and keepsakes all tucked safely away, awaiting her return. _And she will return_ , he assures himself. She has to come back. He doesn’t know when, and it may very well mean facing her wrath, but it’ll be worth it. It always is, and he’ll wait as long as it takes.

_He’s still on his knees when River comes barreling out of the TARDIS, the slamming of the door now the only sound in the suddenly silent room. River stops dead in her tracks, taking in the abrupt change. No more hazard lights. No more sirens ripping through the air, warning of imminent destruction. Her eyes fall to him, to his hard eyes and sagging shoulders, to his hands and the severed wire within them._

_“Doctor?” she accuses him softly._

_He swallows, but says nothing. Apparently, his silence is answer enough because River’s grip on the calibrator tightens, her face falling from concern to dread._

_“I stopped it.” The Doctor finally speaks. “I manually suppressed the power flow to the main reactor. It should equilibrate now.”_

_“You had no way of knowing the reactor would stabilize,” River chastises him, cheeks that had been flushed from adrenaline now burning for entirely different reasons. “It could just as easily have blown.”_

_“I had a hunch,” he shrugs, and River’s brows shoot half way up her forehead._

_“A hunch?! You staked the lives of those people on a **hunch**?”_

_“It had already set itself to destruct. What choice did I have?”_

_“Me, you idiot!” River admonishes him. “You should have told me. The chances of me shutting it down manually were far better than your ‘cut and hope’ strategy, and you know it!”_

_The Doctor stands, keeping his eyes fixed carefully on his hands as he dusts off his trousers. “I had a 50/50 shot and I took it. You would have done the same.”_

_River remains silent, waiting for his eyes to find hers before she speaks. “No,” she breathes, her expression almost pained. “I wouldn’t have.”_

_“I’m sorry,” he sighs the confession, making his way toward her. “I had to lie-“_

_“I don’t care that you lied,” she snaps, carelessly tossing the calibrator away and making the Doctor give pause. In the breath before she speaks, it’s clear she sees straight through him. “I care **why** you lied. You can’t just send me away because something is dangerous. I’m not one of your tag-a-longs.”_

_“Exactly!” he scoffs, arms gesticulating wildly. “If I hadn’t tricked you, you never would have left. You’d have stayed behind trying to fix it until the damn thing blew.”_

_“As opposed to what you just did?!” River counters. “You had no right-! “_

_“To what? Keep you safe? When there’s no way to fight, you’re always telling me to leave, to run. Don’t be cross when I expect the same of you.” He tries to keep his voice even as the woman before him practically shakes with anger, her cheeks flushed and shoulders tense, her fingers flexing like she’s fighting the urge to slap him. She’s fuming, so when the Doctor forges on, he’s softer this time, his words a poor mask of how he truly feels. “This was the only way I knew at least one person would make it out alive.”_

_“You mean **I’d** make it out alive,” River corrects him, and when the Doctor doesn’t argue, she gapes at him in bewilderment. “You would put one life above hundreds, possibly thousands?”_

_“Your life?” he questions, giving pause before he answers, truthfully, quietly. “Yes.”_

_River stares back at him with disappointed eyes._ _“Do you expect me to be flattered or… or grateful?!” She spits the word like it’s acid, the repulsion in her voice making him want to recoil._

_He knows she’s better than him. He’s seen it, seen her make this choice. He’s watched her put the lives of strangers above her own. But he refuses to see her die twice, to sit back in silence as she gives her life for the sake of the faceless masses, for people who don’t even know her name. “No, I don’t expect you to be grateful,” he admits shamelessly. “But I’d rather you were angry and breathing than agreeable and dead.”_

_“Sweetie,” she starts, but the word is strained, the sound of patience wearing thin, a lesson she’s tired of teaching. “You can’t choose the needs of one life over the needs of many. Not even if that life is mine. It’s not fair, and I won’t thank you for it.”_

_He doesn’t want her to thank him. He expects her to do nothing but breathe for as long as possible. He demands it from the universe. He demands it gives him these fleeting moments with her. He demands it provides him with lucky solutions to impossible situations. He warns it not to make him choose, because on days like today, he’ll choose River every time, consequences be damned. Maybe that’s why he lost her the first time. So that every day after, he’d make sure she lived._

_River seems to read his mind. She knows what it’s like to threaten the universe, to want to tear at the fabric of existence until it bends to a reality you desire. But she also knows how to surrender and accept the fate that time has written. The Doctor hasn’t been made to face that crossroad yet. He hopes that when he does, he’ll be half as strong as she’s always been._

_“People like us,” River tries again, “we can’t allow ourselves to play favorites. If you could pick and choose who lives and who dies, do you really want to know what that would turn you into?” River closes the distance between them, her hands cupping his cheeks and forcing him to meet her eyes. Her pools of green, soft and perceptive, burn into him as she exhales a heavy breath. She lifts one palm, her fingers stroking through his messy hair to push back his fringe. He fights the urge to close his eyes at the sensation, and River softens, the barest hint of a smile tugging her cheeks. “It’s too much responsibility for one man. It’s not your place to value some lives over others.”_

_“This from the woman who nearly shredded the universe.”_

_“I put it back.” River shrugs playfully, and the Doctor snorts._

_“Only because you had no choice. It was fixed.”_

_“No,” she whispers, her expression as tender as her voice. “Only because you asked me to. And I’m asking the same thing from you now. Stop weighing me over the greater good. Stop trying to save me and let me live.”_

_He says nothing in return, but her eyes hold his, lingering. She’s searching for something. Comprehension? Acceptance? Surrender? He can’t be sure. But whatever it is, she must give up looking for it, because the next thing he knows, a sigh is rushing out of her lungs and she’s pulling him into a tight hug. He welcomes it, his arms folding around River’s soft curves as he buries is face in her wild hair. She smells like adrenaline and smoke and the coolant vapor still spewing from the vents. The Doctor’s hands stroke over the arch of River’s back, taking in her subtle angles and the soft fabric of her clothes, feeling her warmth and her rhythmic breathes, and admiring all the little things that make a person so very alive. The Doctor catches himself feeling guilty. Not because he lied, but because, deep down, he doesn’t feel guilty at all._

_River squeezes him tighter, somehow knowing his every thought without him speaking a word. “Don’t make my life your responsibility, my love,” she breathes into his neck, her words more of a plea than a request. “I couldn’t bear it if you felt like my blood was on your hands.”_

He knows now that he shouldn’t have lied. But it took River to show him his motives were flawed, that at times, he was just as guilty as everyone else when it came to trying to make decisions for her. She’s always teaching him lessons. River was right. He wasn’t doing what was best for her. He was doing what he wanted. He was stringing her along with half-truths, still hoping she would somehow see the whole picture.

She still doesn’t know the whole story, only bearing witness to the tip of the iceberg that is their time together. He doesn’t blame her for running. What she saw looked broken and ugly and misguided. But to the untrained eye, even the patterns of a snow flake can be mistaken for fractures.

He wonders what she wants now, where she might hide when it’s him she’s trying to outrun. She’d choose somewhere secret he supposes, another one of her hiding places she never told him about. He doubts she’ll return to the caves, though. She’ll never go there now that he’s privy to her secret, not while it’s him she’s running from. _Not now that it’s tainted_ , he thinks bitterly. It’s just another thing he’s taken from her, something precious that he robbed her of. He tries to remind himself that she gave it willingly, that she showed him because she wanted to, because she trusted him. Well, she _had_ trusted him, he corrects. But, if anything, the reminder only encourages the guilt burrowing just beneath his skin. 

He wonders exactly how much of her past she regrets giving him. _Not one line._ Her pained voice echoes in his ears, and he wonders, not for the first time, if she said those words because he said them to her. He wonders if she truly meant them or if she was merely following their carefully crafted script. He wonders if looking into the eyes of his younger self and finding nothing but curious pools of brown, her presence vacant and their life together missing, was equal to finally reading the bitter end of a story she’s been writing her whole life. He wonders if she only said those words to pacify him, because she didn’t have a choice. He wonders what it must feel like to see your past, your history, your story written and signed and completed from start to finish. How strong must she have been to see her time winding down to a sudden close, confirmed by the eyes of the person she loved most, and still do what must be done and say what must be said to preserve their timeline? How many times has she put others above herself?

_“I’ll suffer,” she tells him, voice cracking and tears in her eyes._

And she would suffer, did suffer, is suffering. Always sacrificing herself for the greater good.

_The Doctor stares down at the angels defiantly. They are desperate and scared as they propose his death to spare themselves. “Your friends will also be saved.” They offer as a consolation prize, and the Doctor nods, offhandedly agreeing._

_River doesn’t miss a beat, stepping to his side, wide eyed and insistent as she effortlessly offers her life in exchange for his. “I’m a complicated space time event, too. Throw me in.”_

She’s always been eager to offer herself in the place of others, always too busy saving lives and preserving timelines to spare a thought for her own well-being.

_River reluctantly marches away from the Pandorica, and the Doctor allows his eyes to flutter shut, his breathing labored. They don’t think he can hear them. But he can. He hears River explain so he doesn’t have to, because he doesn’t have the strength._

_“Now, please. He wants to talk to you before he goes.”_

_“Not to you?” Amy asks curiously, and he hears River hesitate. He hears her rationalize, hears her smile through her the sadness, somehow remaining strong even though the air in her lungs is heavy and her voice threatens to waver. He hears how she mourns for him, for a past she will never have and future he will never see._

_“He doesn’t really know me yet,” River sighs. “Now he never will.”_

Never once did she protest or complain, consistently finding the strength to do what must be done, even if it meant giving up everything.

_He is crumbling, pleading for Amelia to stay. His motivations are selfish, he knows. And still he begs her, still he lies._

_“But it’s my best shot, yeah?”_

_“No!” he shouts, only to be silenced by River as she encourages her mother to go where they can’t possibly follow._

_“Doctor, shut up! Yes. Yes, it is.” River is resilient and strong long after they say their goodbyes, standing tall even as he collapses to the floor. It isn’t until later that he realizes she kept her eyes fixed on the angel, that she kept him safe and allowed him to grieve, that she stood tall and fierce and let him wither and weep as she watched her parents being ripped from her grasp once again._

The Doctor’s head aches with weight of her sacrifices. Just this once, he thought he could be the martyr, that maybe he could do something selfless for her. But his presence in her life always seems to bring her pain. Maybe the truly noble thing to do is let her go. Maybe the TARDIS showing up late is evidence enough that he isn’t meant to catch her this time. Maybe the days of spoilers are done and all the running and chasing has come to an abrupt end. Maybe _always_ has finally come to a close and it’s time to stop clinging to the mist of a bygone romance. Maybe he should finally find the strength to do what he’s never been able to do before. Maybe he should finally let her go.

His hands shake with uncertainty, the fear that she’s better off without him thriving in his veins, feeding on his doubt. Maybe he was right all along about her memories. Maybe she had chosen to forget. It can’t be a coincidence that it’s only the parts of her life he touched that she can’t remember. Her childhood, her parents, their shared friends and adventures, and those long nights in Stormcage that they stretched into weeks.

The Doctor sighs, casting his eyes downward. It takes one look at her bed, at the cobalt blue duvet and silky sheets, for innumerable memories to flood his brain. He remembers nights being tangled in one another, kisses and gasps and promises whispered in dead languages. He remembers her breath on his cheek and how she’d jerk and squeak whenever he found that secret ticklish spot at the bend of her knee. He remembers soft smiles and sleepy eyes and how she’d always bury her face in his chest, humming as she breathed in the scent of him or exhaled a sigh of bliss.

Nostalgia warms him and shatters him in the same moment. It’s enough to remind him that he’ll never be strong enough to simply let her go, not while she’s still breathing. But more importantly, he realizes that she’d never walk away from it either. No matter what horrors befell them, the good would always outweigh the bad. Every time. Always. She just needs reminding of how good things can be. He needs to be strong for her just a little bit longer. For once, it’s his turn to have all the answers. And when she’s ready, he’ll be waiting right here to show her the way.

Flopping backwards on her bed, the Doctor takes a moment to stare up at the ceiling. There are just as many memories to be found in the grooves above as there are in the sheets below. He has spent many a night staring intently into the darkness, making patterns out of shadows as they dance across the ceiling. More often than not, he would curl around her while she slept, counting her breathes as his mind wandered to forgotten places.

River always had the power to make him stand still. She gave him strength to bask in the darkness rather than hide from it. She calmed his nerves enough for him to simply lay. It was easy to be still with her. Her presence somehow chasing away the demons that threatened to catch him if ever he let his mind rest. She knew just how to distract him and when to be a smirking, flirting, paradox. But she also knew how to calm him, to run her fingers through his hair and hum him lullabies he hadn’t yet taught her. With her, he could drift into dreamless sleep, floating like a ship on placid water, her voice the current guiding him home.

The Doctor turns to his side, scooting up to rest his head on her pillow. It’s just as cozy and soft as he remembers. He indulges himself by inhaling her scent: spice and honeysuckles and the faintest hint of time still lingering on the fabric. He can’t help snuggling into it further, inhaling greedily. But as he presses more firmly against it, he is met with resistance from something lumpy and hard. Puzzled, he digs his hand underneath to find the obstruction. His fingers close around cold metal and the Doctor withdrawals his hand with a frown.

It’s her gun; and to his surprise, he finds himself smiling down at it fondly. Not that he’d ever admit it, because he does loath the vile, violent things. But this particular style is so very _River_ , he can’t help himself. She has six of this model. Two she keeps on her person at all times. At least three of which she stores in secret places around the TARDIS. And this one, which she always keeps under her pillow. Stormcage was no exception, either. None of the guards knew about it, obviously. Not that any of them would dare try to take it from her if they did.

She even kept it with her when she slept at Amy and Rory’s. She would joke about it, of course, always making light of her trigger happy tendencies and mild paranoid. And after he found out _why_ abandoned buildings and dimly lit rooms made her fingers itch for a weapon, the jokes were never quite as funny as they had been before. He understands why she keeps an array of guns and knives hidden on her at all times. He understands why she has aliases and backup plans for her backup plans. He understands why she has deadbolts and trip locks and seven layers of security codes and fingerprint password recognition on all her doors. Nothing got in or out of this house without River Song knowing about it. Apart from a few adjustments the last time he was here, his efforts to tighten security were hardly needed at all and-

The security. He shouldn’t have been able to land inside her home with the parameters that high. And if he shouldn’t have been able to land then how did she leave? She didn’t know about his adjustments. She wouldn’t have known to lower the security settings. Unless…

Blood sufficiently drained from his face and moving faster than he ever thought possible, the Doctor scrambles off the bed. He crosses her bedroom in two strides, darting out into the hallway and nearly knocking a picture frame off the wall in his haste. He barrels right past it, paying it no mind as he rounds the corner like a man possessed. "River?" He calls out in warning, but the morbid feeling in his gut tells him it's already too late. "River, it's a-" his voice catches in horror as he barges into the living room. His insides suddenly awash with an icy dread as he takes in the sight of her wrecked living room. "...trap." He exhales in defeat, the distinct urge to be sick rising in his throat.

The room is destroyed. Pictures with shattered frames hang crooked on the walls. Scorch marks from her blaster stain the ceiling and carpet. The settee is upturned and the coffee table shattered to pieces by phaser fire. Worst of all, there’s no sign of River, which can only mean one thing.

They took her.


	17. Fear in a Handful of Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a week?! This is madness! Lol and I know I keep upping the chapter count, but my words keep running away with me so I keep having to split these chapters in half. 
> 
> Chapter title from the T.S. Eliot quote, "I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

“A trap is only a trap if you don't know about it. If you know about it, it's a challenge.”  China Mieville

* * *

 

They took her.

They came into her home and they _took_ _her_.

She was alone and distraught and they ambushed her and _they **took** her_.

She’s gone, taken, with no way of tracking her. Now he’s left standing here in her broken home, surrounded by the fallout of his worst fears. He wasn’t here to save her, and now he may never see her again.

From the very beginning he knew coming back to her house was a bad idea. He knew those men would come looking here the second she escaped the hospital. They just needed to catch her alone. And that’s just what they did. They waited, knowing eventually one or both of them would let their guard down. They bided their time, waiting for the perfect moment, and when they struck, River never stood a chance.

They took her and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

But the real question is _how_? How did they even get in?

Instinctively, the Doctor’s long legs cross the living room, stepping over broken furniture and shattered glass until he reaches the security panel outside her door. There are no markings or signs of forced entry. But the panel itself is still smoking, fried by the work of a hand held detonator, most likely. Whatever it was essentially shocked the system with power surges until it overloaded, allowing them to teleport directly inside. They were using some form of cheap time travel, no doubt, if the smell of static in the air is any indication. He’d mistaken it for River’s vortex manipulator upon landing. But in this room, the potency of the smell is different, stronger, more acrid. It tastes secondhand, sloppy even. The kind of device that should have been retired years ago, but the owners just keep squeezing a little bit more life from it.

The Doctor turns back to the destroyed living room to investigate, and if at all possible, learn something about the attackers other than their affinity for cheap time travel. Judging by the fire pattern and scorch marks, there were at least six of them waiting for her when she materialized inside. It was an ambitious task to say the least, using only six men to out gun River Song in her own home. Though, apparently, not an impossible one. But still, she gave them hell. Not that he expected any less.

As he runs his fingers over scrapes and singed wallpaper, he can practically feel the events that transpired. He’s seen her in action enough to know how she fights, how she moves her body with all the grace of a dancer and strikes as quickly as a snake. So when the Doctor looks around the room, taking in the settee littered with holes, the fabric still smoking and stained by black marks, he can almost picture it. _Their rapid gunfire barely missing her as River dives behind the settee, drawing her weapon. The bookshelf sizzles and creaks as meson bursts explode upon its surface, raining sparks upon the carpeted floor. River returns fire, her aim unforgiving as she struggles to even the odds._

That very gun now lies abandoned by the bookshelf, where it must have clattered to the floor, knocked from her grasp by force. His eyes are instinctively drawn by a smear of crimson tinting the mahogany bookcase. It’s not quite a handprint, more of a smudge. Judging by the pattern, the hand was in motion, wiping or perhaps pushing off the wall. It must have been quite the struggle. River’s had plenty of practice keeping men twice her size at bay with little more than determination and snarky comments, landing punch lines and right hooks in tandem. ‘ _Never try to separate a girl from her guns, boys._ ’

The Doctor almost pities the person who tried to disarm her. Almost.

_One of them grabs her from behind in an attempt to detain her, but River’s quicker. Her heel slams down hard on his toe, an elbow simultaneously jamming into his ribs. The man groans, but his grip doesn’t loosen so she rears her head back, the back of her skull colliding with his nose. There’s a crunch and a shout and his arms fly away to cup his broken face. Another blow from River sends him stumbling back, his arms flying out to brace himself. A hand, slippery with fresh blood, smears across the shelf before he charges her again._

Another splash of red stains the carpet just a few feet away, and the Doctor crouches down, examining it. The spatter pattern suggests it didn’t come from an injury, but rather an object that had been slung across the room. He gets on his hands and knees, searching under furniture for the item in question. Beneath the crumpled end table, something reflective catches his eye. It’s her knife, and he plucks it from where it’s been hiding, discarded or kicked out of reach.

It’s the same knife he used to sever River’s corset. It’s small, but it’s sharp and, most importantly, it’s effective. Traces of black fabric and a hint of blood still cling to its rough edges and _two sets of hands are on her now, their iron grip causing her gun to clatter to the floor. River uses their weight against them, leveraging herself and sending her knee crashing into the closer man’s gut. He doubles over enough for her to reach the knife she keeps in her boot. Her fingers close around the trusty weapon, embedding it in the other man’s shoulder. The man rips it from his flesh with a shout, speckles of blood dotting the carpet as he tosses it across the floor._

Yes, she most definitely gave them hell. But not enough, it seems. At least two of her weapons have been stripped from her. It’s unclear how many she had on her at the time, probably not many. She left in a bit of a hurry. _Because of me_ , he reminds himself, a pang of guilt burning like fire in his chest.

The Doctor does his best to focus, keeping panic at bay by focusing on the task at hand. He stands, moving to investigate a suspicious dirt mark marring the floor. It’s most likely from the side of a boot, made when another item was being kicked just out of reach. A few feet away lies the smashed remains of what used to be River’s coffee table. The Doctor heads toward it, carefully lifting and digging through the shattered pieces. Buried in the rubble, he finds River’s vortex manipulator. What’s left of it is spent and useless, the feeble power-cells completely drained. The faithful device looks more fragile than ever. Tenderly, he picks it up, his hearts aching to find the leather is still warm from her skin. The strap has been torn, the buckle bent and broken where they ripped it from her wrist. The sight of it, one of her favorite possessions, discarded and forgotten, on the floor is all the evidence he needs to be certain that they did indeed take her.

The anger inside his own veins beings to boil, that ever familiar feeling bristling on the back of his neck. He’s as angry at himself as he is the attackers, blame sitting heavy at the forefront of his conscious. They took her because he let her get away, because he  _drove_  her away. He sent her straight into a trap, and now she's alone, heaven knows where with God knows whom. And he still doesn't even know why. She could be hurt or scared or _dead,_ and that surge of anger wells up inside him again, jerking and spiking like the needle of a seismograph.

The vortex manipulator still cradled gently in his hand, the Doctor’s eyes fall back to her gun. Before he has a chance to linger on the thought, he strides across the room and scoops it up, tucking both items into his pocket for safe keeping. He has a feeling River will want them handy when he next sees her.

As he withdraws his hand from his pocket, another item, something small and plastic, brushes against his fingers. “ _Poly Propositum plastic. 50 th century at least,”_ River’s voice chimes in his memory and the Doctor allows his fingers to close around the object, withdrawing it. The small, mysterious object is just as puzzling as it had been on the pyramid and infinitely more tempting.

_“It’s a broadcast beacon,”_ his own voice echoes in his mind as he contemplates doing something unspeakably reckless, even for him. _“that if plugged into, oh, I don’t know, a _ **communicator**__ **,** _it would amplify the homing signal of said device, taking us straight to the source.”_

He’s desperate enough to do it, he thinks. He’s desperate enough to charge straight into the lion’s den. If it got him to her again, if he could make her safe, he thinks he’s desperate enough to do just about anything.

The mass of the beacon is minimal, but the weight of its potential sits heavy in the Doctor’s palm. Possible timelines and choices weave and spin within his mind, tugging him in a thousand different directions, all twisting and branching off towards hundreds of prospective futures. Some of them are fixed and others more flexible. There are dead ends and paradoxes. Delicate timelines bend to their breaking points, threads in the fabric of reality folding back on themselves as he contemplates crossing his own timeline in ways that make causality itself tremble.

It isn’t a new feeling. He's used to the haphazard mess of time and paradoxes that River leaves in her wake. When they were back to front, the pull was always strong, almost painful at times. Moments that would make or break causality flexed under the weight of choices that had been made or would be made or could never be made. With her, the right path had always been clear, complex but clear, like a guide rail in a dark room.

But now, the timeline flickers. It's weak, all but unwritten and offering no promises of tomorrow. He latches onto what embers remain, holding tight and focusing. He plucks at possible timelines like the strings of a guitar, testing the way they resonate until he locates the one that sings her name the loudest. Potential futures condense, choices sharpening, possibilities flashing and flaring behind his eyes until they all fade, leaving only one spark left, one obvious future. If he wants to find her, there is only one choice left. He has to use the beacon.

With his free hand, the Doctor reaches into his other pocket, extracting the stolen communicator. Both palms full, his vision swims between the objects. The two lumps of plastic are his best chance and only hope of finding River. And yet, his fingers hesitate in their task of connecting the two. In one hand, the dull and bulky com-device taunts him, relentlessly flashing **Out of Range.** And in the other, the tiny beacon crackles under his fingertips, the time energy still clinging to its surface acting like an electric pull, begging him to trust its purpose, that the intentions that entwine their paths are benign ones.

It’s a long shot at best and an utter disaster at worst. All the odds are stacked against him. He doesn’t know what he’ll be walking into. But they took down River, so they’ll almost assuredly be armed. He doesn’t know where or when or who or why. He doesn’t know if the device will lead him back to where they’re keeping River or if she’s even still alive. All he knows is that, whoever they are, they are organized and ruthless. And above all else, he knows that he’s almost certainly walking into a trap. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. It’s stupid.

It’s exactly what she would do in his place.

With a quiet smirk and a shrug of his shoulders, the Doctor’s voice fills the broken room. “Geronimo,” he declares. Even as he makes his choice, the timeline wobbles, uncertain and unsafe. Tracking their pursuers back to the source is still just as dangerous as it was before, still just as likely it's leading him into a trap. The only difference is, now he has nothing left to lose. 

Sliding the beacon into the communicator’s external port, the Doctor braces himself for fireworks and system overloads. He prepares for urgent warning messages and an array of encrypted codes and coordinates. He anticipates a team of armed men descending on him at any moment. He expects urgency and chaos and flair.

What he gets is a lackluster beep and a lethargically pulsing cursor. With a frown the Doctor reaches for his screwdriver, aiming it at the tiny device. With a little sonic encouraging, the communicator whirs to life, blinking earnestly this time. The screen flickers for a moment, a mess of static and shifting base-code before lazy fading back to black.

The beacon’s signal still isn’t strong enough. Giving an indignant huff, the Doctor alters the setting of his sonic, ramping up the frequency. This time, the device whines in protest, pushed to its breaking point. The Doctor doesn’t relent, increasing the device’s activation range until it spans lightyears and bends the confines of linear time. He boots the signal again and again until the screen bursts back to life in an array of pulsing colors and erratic green lines that look as if they’ve been stretched and twisted across cyberspace. The sonic shrieks in his ears, and the Doctor has to look away, shielding his eyes as sparks erupt from where the two devices are joined, hot embers biting at his knuckles.

Then suddenly, the device gives an obedient chime, the beacon finally signaling it’s locked onto the correct homing signal. The Doctor cuts off his sonic, watching with baited breath as the information loads. The cursor pulses, once, twice, three times, before finally relinquishing the coordinates to the small screen. One look is all he needs to burn them into his mind, bolting back to his ship with as much fervor as he’d barreled out of it only a few moments before. The TARDIS seems to be waiting for him, cloister bell tolling and engine pulsing before he even closes the doors. Carelessly, he tosses the beacon and communicator onto the jump seat, freeing both his hands to input coordinates, all but throwing the TARDIS into the vortex in his haste.

He pilots her with ease, just a boy, his box, and a clear heading in sight. What will happen once he lands, he isn’t sure. But this part he knows, the hums and vibrations of his ship as she sails through the staticky storm of time and spa-

Just then, the ship gives a sudden lurch, slamming the Doctor into the console. His upper body clings to the controls, his hands desperately grasping at gadgets and levers as the TARDIS hurdles through the vortex. He wrestles his way upright, wondering if they’ve been caught in some kind of radiation storm or gravity well. But one glance at the monitor tells him that finding their destination isn't the problem. It only took the Old Girl a moment to sift through the infinite spectrum of space-time. It’s the landing she doesn’t seem to agree with.

Again, the TARDIS shudders and shakes, fighting and groaning against some unseen force. For a brief moment, he thinks he’ll have to persuade her, that he’ll have to override her safety settings or find a way to make landing lights so they can break through yet another time distortion. Then the ship jolts again, nearly sending him reeling over the railing. The Doctor holds on for dear life as his ship slams into the outside world again and again until he thinks he’ll be sick.

That’s when he notices it. The hull of his ship is trembling, but not under the pressure of paradoxes. She’s testing for weak spots, pounding against what must be some kind of temporal shield, a bloody strong one at that if it can keep Sexy out. She fights the coordinates, or the coordinates fight her, either way, the Doctor struggles to stay upright as his ship bounces from point to point, looking for a place to land.

When she finally touches ground, it’s with a reluctant, unsteady wheeze. The lights immediately dim, the engine falling silent. The Doctor exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding before relinquishing his grip on the rail. As he looks around, he notes that nothing is broken or fuming, no fires have broken out and no hazardous gasses ooze out from overhead pipes. And yet the ship has practically powered down, putting herself on standby. She doesn’t want to draw attention to herself.                    

The Doctor swallows, taking the hint that he shouldn’t just barrel out the door this time. He takes precautions, reaching for the scanner to run environment checks. But the ship has gone into compete power- saving mode, offering him no information on the outside world. Even the live video feed is virtually useless. The screen is black, the lighting outside too dark to pick up any details, and the Doctor’s thoughts flutter helplessly back to the pyramid.

_"Yes! It would take us straight to them! We don't know who they are or what they want. We'd be walking in blind."_

_Her eyes sparkle with challenge and her lips twitch at the corners as she says, "I'm not afraid of the dark."_

As he stares at the scanner’s screen, gazing out into the foreboding darkness, he sincerely hopes that’s true. The thought of River potentially waiting for him somewhere out there in the shadows makes his pulse quicken. _Not every shadow,_ the ghosts of his past sing, and the Doctor swallows the panic that rises like bile in his throat. He tells himself it’s just a coincidence, that the universe isn’t that cruel, that not even he deserves to suffer that fate twice.

Turning away from the screen, he makes to pick up the communicator. He isn’t surprised to find it’s fried, wrung of the last of its use when he short circuited it to find these coordinates. “Typical,” the Doctor sighs, tossing it back to the jump seat. So this is where the scattered clues have led him, to a dark, foreign place with no plans or guesses worth a damn. The Doctor straightens his lapels. Armed with nothing but a sonic and blind faith, he determinedly makes his way toward the ship’s exit.

The TARDIS door creaks as he pulls it open, spilling its dim blue hues out into an equally dark hall. Except it's not really a hall; it's a tunnel, a long tube of cement that stretches on into a maze of darkness. The ceiling is lined with two rows of soft glowing emergency lights, and on convex walls the words ‘ _Subsector Seven’_ are written in faded black paint. The markings and language suggest it's human in origin, most likely an abandoned military bunker or science compound designed for colonizing new worlds.

"Oh, River, River, River,” the Doctor sighs to himself, “What have you gotten us into this time?" 

The Doctor steps further out into the darkness, letting the quiet stillness engulf him. Around him, dust floats in the disturbed air, dancing along stray light rays before settling back onto the cold ground. 

_It’s too dark, too dusty. Just like the last time. The only light source shines from their torches; the only sounds that of their feet crunching against ancient gravel and the occasional echoing drip of water condensation. Patches of the long undisturbed soil are muddy, riddled with sink holes and booby traps._

_He can't help thinking that Donna would hate it here. He knows what her reaction would be, her voice like a phantom still fresh in his mind. ‘You know Spaceman, if I wanted dull, damp, and smelly I would have stayed in Chiswick.’ It makes his hearts ache for days she can’t remember and he won’t ever forget._

_He shakes away his melancholy, distracting himself with the wild-eyed, enigmatic woman at his side. She's not in an astronaut suit this time. Still, she doesn't dress like an archaeologist should._ _On her hips rests a tool belt, her brushes mingling with a rather creative assortment of weaponry._ _She seems a walking contradiction with dirt smudges on her cheeks and perfectly painted lips. It’s irksome, the way she sends him coordinates to deadly tombs with no explanation at all. As if she already knows he'll come toddling along, no questions asked, her invitation as flippant as offering tea to a guest, even though the kettles already boiling and you're reaching for their favorite mug._

_"Why'd you ask me to join you, anyway?"  The Doctor asks, lacing his curiosity with mild annoyance._

_"A girl shouldn’t go wandering into the dark alone." She answers over her shoulder, tossing him a sultry look that makes him want to fidget. "There could be monsters.” There’s a twinkle in her green eyes suggesting that's exactly what she's hoping for._

_The Doctor huffs out a laugh, completely unsurprised that she's the sort who goes looking for trouble. She's certainly an interesting individual. For an archaeologist, that is. His eyes fall once again to her custom made tool belt and the blaster encased within. "Is that why you brought that along?"_

_River turns to him curiously, her eyes following his line of vision. When she looks back at him, she’s wearing her usual mask of mild amusement, but apart from that, her expression is unreadable. "Would it make you feel better if I said yes?"_

_"Not really,” he frowns. “I hate guns."_

_River looks away. It's her turn to chuckle, amused by some joke he isn't privy to. If at all possible, he finds the smug curl of her cheeks even more irritating than the condescending way she usually informs him of what he does or doesn't like._

_"We’re right on top of it now,"_ _River offers, effortlessly changing the subject as she checks her scanner._

_"What exactly is **it**?" he asks just as the cavern dead ends, opening up into a large room with a gaping hole at its center. _

_"No idea," River answers excitedly. "But the thermonuclear readings from it are off the charts." She begins to circles the mouth of the strange pit, stopping every few feet to check its readings. With a satisfied smirk, she snaps the device closed, bending over to scoop up a stone and drop it unceremoniously into the pit, testing its depth. They wait in silence for a sound that never comes. A gust of wind bursts up in its place. If one could call it wind. It feels more like breath, hot and stale, blowing through the cavern. A menacing, gurgling noise that River takes as invitation churns up from deep within the well. She looks back to him with sparkling eyes, and even as they share excited glances, he wonders if she'll ever invite him anywhere that doesn't wreak certain death._

It isn't much darker than inside the TARDIS; therefore, his eyes adjust easily to the low light. It allows him to see that in addition to the faded paint, the old walls are also coated in a thick layer of dust. The air is stale and dry, but hints of purification residue can be found, as if it's been recently recycled through outdated vents.

Someone's been staying here for quite a bit, it seems. Otherwise, they wouldn’t go through the trouble of filtering the air. Holding up his sonic, the Doctor does a quick scan for residential life signs. The trusty device’s whirring briefly rings out, rolling down the empty hall and echoing off hungry walls. Only two life signs register: his and one that identifies as humanoid. _River_. His hearts soar, hope blooming in his chest like summer. But the warmth lasts only a moment before it is followed by the cool winds of autumn, curling around his newfound relief until it withers into suspicion.

Where are her captors? And if they are truly gone, why would they go through the trouble of capturing her just to leave her here?

Doubt tingles in the back of his mind, but he carries on in spite of his better judgement, forging ahead with nothing in his arsenal but hope and the slow blinking signal on his sonic. The Doctor’s feet barely make a sound as he continues down the dark corridor. But in the quiet, the tapping of his shoes may as well be alarm bells, ringing out and alerting the entire cosmos to his presence. And yet, still his sonic only detects the two life signs. He tampers down a shuddering breath, pushing worry to the back of his mind.

The unease swimming in his veins only intensifies as he comes to an intersection. The dividing paths all look the same, their destinations lost to the darkness as they branch and fork off into a multitude of directions. _Like a fly in a spider web,_ his mind whispers. But he shakes it off, focusing instead on the pulsing light on the sonic and the best way to locate its source. The Doctor’s eyes stray upward, spotting some electrical wiring in the corner of one of the walls. It’s newer than the cement walls of the building and the dust around them doesn’t appear as thick, most likely disturbed by recent modifications. With a determined crinkle in his brow, the Doctor takes a step down the aisle, following the wiring. A few steps later the device in his hands changes pitch, humming happily as he grows closer to the life sign.

He passes door after door, most of which still bear remnants of the same black paint. As far as he can make out, they are serial numbers acting as labels for each room. He doesn’t stop to investigate their contents, but he keeps a clever watch of the ever descending pattern should he need to find his way back.

Without the markings, the place would be a maze of cement, not unlike the TARDIS. But there is no comforting hum around him, only the soft buzz from the over-head lights and the whirring of his sonic. The closer he gets the quicker the device pulses. The Doctor finds his hearts have synced up with the ever climbing cacophony of noise, the muscles all but beating out of his chest when the device finally reaches its climax in front of a plainly marked door.

Impulsively, he switches the setting on his screwdriver, scanning around the metal frame for bugs, security, or alarms. There's nothing. No locks or resistance. Answers lie just beyond this door and yet it is unguarded, unprotected, vulnerable. He cuts off the device, silence filling the air once again as the echoing whir of the sonic disappears down the hall. The sound of his pulse remains, thundering in his ears, blood pounding through his veins so loud he imagines it too can be heard reverberating off the concrete walls.

There’s a tingling in his mind again, his subconscious warning him that it’s too quiet _, too easy_. His fingers close around the cool, metal handle anyway. There’s no time for hesitation. The only way left to go is forward.

The lever clunks abrasively as he applies pressure, the door groaning as it slowly opens under its own heavy weight. Darkness seeps from inside the room, black edges curling around the door frame like a living thing. Reluctantly, he pushes the door open more, letting light from the hallway spill inside. It's not much, but the dim rays pierce the blanket of darkness, florescent fingers stretching across cold ground and empty walls. It sends tingles down his spine, worry, unease, a splash of fear. Then the light catches something, skirting over a figure at the center of the room. Even hunched over and bound to a chair, it's a figure he would know anywhere. It’s River, and at the sight of her, he forgets all else.

The room is still dark, but he charges in anyway, throwing caution to the wind. She is all the light he needs, a blinding ray that chases his fears back into the shadows. He's to her in an instant, crossing the room in three large strides and collapsing to his knees before her. His eyes flit over her quickly, inspecting her for obvious signs of damage.

She's been bound, her hands behind her back and her feet at the ankles. She's also been blindfolded and gagged. Her eyes are hidden, and those ruby lips he knows so well are turned under, jaw tight and mouth contorted by the gag.  _Oh, River, what have they done to you?_   His shoulders sag at the thought, momentarily stunned, before remembering himself and lifting a hand to remove her blindfold. His fingertips graze her cheekbones ever so slightly, and River jerks away at the touch, thrashing and fighting.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he soothes, pressing his palms against her cheeks.

This seems to make her settle, her features softening as she tilts her chin towards the sound of his voice. Her brow furrows in concern, wordlessly asking, _Doctor?_  

"Course it is," he answers her unspoken question with a whisper, wasting no time as he removes her blindfold, revealing her eyes to him. "Can't get rid of me that easily." 

River blinks hard, adjusting to the newfound freedom. The Doctor offers her a lopsided smile, taking the small moment to stroke her face reverently. In the dim lighting her face is mostly shadows. But her eyes still glow, her emotions flashing behind them like a whirlwind: sudden confusion, the flood of relief, a rising tide of panic, inevitable irritation.

With a flutter of his heartbeats, her emotions solidify, eyes narrowing in anger. It’s so perfectly _her_ that the Doctor has to suppress the urge to laugh. Only his River could manage to still be cross with him in the middle of a rescue. Without wasting any more time, the Doctor tugs at her gag, gently pulling it free and letting it hang around her neck. Rather than offer thanks, River snaps at him, voice croaking against a dry mouth. "What are you doing here?!"

Making to untie her binds, the Doctor gives an inappropriately lighthearted snort. "Given the circumstance, I should think that's pretty obvious."

"You idiot,” River hisses, “You have to get out of here. Go! This is blatantly a trap."

"Well of course it's a trap,” The Doctor sing songs, gazing up at her as he spares a moment to bop the tip of her nose. “But don't worry, I've got everything under-" Suddenly, there's a prick and a sharp, stinging sensation on the back of his neck. The effects are instantaneous, his thoughts swimming as his vision begins to blur. River's form shifts before him like an intangible haze. Her mouth moves, lips forming words in slow motion. She's speaking to him, but he doesn't hear her. The air is too thick, too muddled, his ears ringing at an unnatural pitch. Blinking rapidly against unconsciousness, the Doctor manages a final word before he slips into oblivion, "-control," he breathes groggily before collapsing to the ground, the terrified silhouette of his wife the last thing he sees before everything fades to black.


	18. Hidden in Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally meet the bad guys and the timey wimey shit is about to hit the wibbly wobbly fan.

“A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.” –William Blake

 

* * *

  

_River’s still resting when he returns, still basking in dreamless sleep while her body recuperates from being drained of its life force. The respite has done wonders already. Her skin has started to regain some of its golden hue, and the spring is returning to her curly locks. Perched on the edge of her bed and quietly observing the woman he’s come to know so well, never once had he considered her first meeting with him would end like this._

_After he learned what she was, he had let himself imagine more time, more faces. The sliver of hope makes facing reality all the more painful. It hurts even more to know that this is the last face she will wear, that this is the last of her lives and he’s already seen how it ends._

_He longs to touch her, drawn by the magnetic pull of her that never fails to lure him in. Instead, the Doctor folds his hands tightly across his lap, breathing deeply, and inhaling the distinct hospital aroma of exhaustion and cleaning supplies._

_River must sense his presence because she stirs, her eyes seeking him out as they flutter open. “Doctor,” she sighs, half smiling as she glances around the vacant room. “Where are Amy and Rory?”_

_He's heard her use their names a thousand times before, but now, here in the wake of knowing who and what she is, it feels wrong. "Your parents," he corrects gently, "are back in Leadworth."_

_"Oh," she says quietly, and it's alarming how she can't or doesn't even try to hide her emotions. It’s painful to see how the light from her smile dims like sunlight filtered through a raincloud._

_"Not because they wanted to be,” the Doctor intervenes before the joy in her eyes can wither, too. “I took them home because I had to."_

_“Why?” she asks, confusion taking precedence over disappointment._

_"Because I need to talk to you,” he pauses, gazing at her with hooded eyes. “Alone."_

_The duvet crinkles as River finds the strength to sit upright, her eyes shining a little greener as she coos, “Is it time for my sponge bath already?” The easy flirtation comes so naturally to her that the Doctor can’t help but chuckle._

_“Maybe when you’re older.” The deliberate intent in his voice must take her by surprise, because River’s eyes fall to her lap, hiding the blush that threatens to creep across her cheeks._

_It’s adorable. It’s endearing. It’s a harsh reminder of just how young she is. Though she may look the part, this isn’t the River Song he knows yet. For the first time, a quiet sadness stirs in his chest._

_“Are they treating you well?” he blurts out, jumping to his feet and pacing about the room before his thoughts and silence can linger any longer. “How’s the food? Never mind, hospital food is always rubbish. I could pop out to a chippy if you like? I know a great little place in Brighton.”_

_“Doctor.”_

_“On second thought, I did get thrown out last time I was there. Not Brighton, then, but anywhere else. Well, except Essex.”_

_“Doctor.”_

_“Nothing happened, we’re just not on speaking terms at the moment because-“_

_“ **Doctor** ,” River says more forcefully and this time he finally pauses for air, looking up at her in surprise. "You didn't come back to ask if I wanted fish and chips."_

_“No,” he shakes his head, causing his messy fringe to fall over his eyes. “I didn't.”_

_River holds his gaze with interest. “Then why did you?”_

_“I wanted to apologize,” he explains, and River huffs out a disbelieving laugh._

_“I’m not sure you’re the one who has reason to be sorry.”_

_“I didn’t just mean for Berlin.”_

_The weight of his words thickens the air between them, and River nods once before looking away. She seems to understand he means all the things that are yet to come as well as everything that came before. “And are you?” she asks, still not meeting his eyes. “Sorry for the way things turned out?”_

_“Yes,” he breathes, “and no.” He doesn’t miss the way her nervous fingers toy with the edge of the sheets. “I’m sorry for what was done to you, but I’ll never be sorry for the woman it turned you into.”_

_“A woman who killed you,” River deadpans, but all the Doctor can do is smile._

_“And saved me all in the same day, pretty amazing, I think. Not everyone can say they’ve been brought back to life by a kiss.”_

_“And you’re alright with that, are you, having a ‘bespoke psychopath’?”_

_“I’m sorry for many things,” he offers solemnly, captivated by the nervous way she nibbles her bottom lip. “But never for you or the paths that led us here.”_

_River shakes her head softly, chuckling more out of incredulity than amusement. “I do believe that makes you selfish, Doctor.”_

_“Yeah, but you already knew that,” he rebuts with a smile, and all at once, the tension in her frame falls away. “And because I’m selfish, I have a request."  
_

_“Oh?” she asks, brow arching in curiosity._

_He hesitates, working his jaw and wetting his lips before forging ahead. “The ones who did this to you, they’re still out there.”_

_“And you’re saying I need to watch my back?”_

_“I’m saying… don’t make it any easier for them by going out looking for trouble.”_

_"Why, Doctor,” River coos, “if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me."_

_"I am,” he answers earnestly._

_“Well you needn’t be. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”_

_“I know you are.” A playful laugh falls from his lips, but it’s strained, weighed down by years and memories and worry. Though she may not understand why, she doesn’t miss how the corner of his smile wavers. Even this early on she can see him. “Which is why you don’t need an old fool like me getting in your way. You need to make your own way, and its best if I-“_

_“You don’t want to stick around.” It isn't a question, and the Doctor lets out a heavy sigh, making his way back over to the foot of her bed. Between spoilers and Rule One, all he’s done is warn her about secrets and lies. She should go running for the hills. But she doesn’t. She remains brave, having faith in him, even now when she only knows him by his failures._

_“It’s not what you think Ri- Melody. There are things you need to decide for yourself. Things I can’t be a part of. But when you’re ready- if you like, I’ll always be there when you call.”_

_River considers him, pursing her lips to hide a smirk. “Ominous warnings, cryptic apologies, and promises of adventure,” she recites with a practiced coquet. “Is it always this exciting?”_

_He can’t bring himself to say ‘spoilers,’ not here in the quiet, not when it matters. The word still feels foreign on his tongue, like he’s borrowing something that will always belong to her. “Sometimes,” he says instead. “Where and when our lives intersect is complex and, more often than not, dangerous."_

_“All the best things are,” she says cheekily, bravado always her best defense._

_“Even so, you’re not invincible. After what you did in Berlin… what you gave up… you wouldn’t have enough energy to-“_

_“But some?” she interjects, and the Doctor frowns._

_“Not enough,” he repeats more firmly. “If something happened to you…” Lost for words, the Doctor sighs. “Just be careful. Please.”_

_River makes no promises, a distasteful frown contorting her perfect lips. “Being careful sounds awfully dull.”_

_The Doctor avoids her gaze, hiding his eyes from her as they find the open window. A soft breeze catches the curtains and the heart monitors chirp duteously in the background as he quietly confesses, “On the contrary, life’s never dull when you’re on your last one.”_

Things could have gone better, he thinks groggily, struggling to find his way back to consciousness. His sonic is gone, his limbs feel heavy, and a fuzzy, buzzing mist clouds his brain, making it hard to move. He jostles his head anyway, trying to force his unruly body to cooperate.

It's only when he feels his eye lashes flutter and a rush of stale air steals the moisture from his eyes that he realizes they are already open. Blindfolded, then. Except, no, that can’t be right. Blinking in rapid succession, he feels no restrictive cloth around his eyes. Not blindfolded, _blind_. A dagger of fear pierces him and his arms jerk in a panicked attempt to feel the outside world. He's met with resistance, struggling against his bindings. The only sounds filling the room are his own labored breathes and the clanging of metal against the legs and arms of his chair. The binds dig into his wrists and ankles so sharply it’s bound to leave bruises, but the Doctor pays the pain no mind, too focused on testing for weak spots to bother about injuries.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re about as subtle as a stampede?” River’s voice pierces the darkness, washing over his ears like a psalm. The Doctor stills. He isn’t sure what’s more comforting: the familiar way she teases him or the fact that neither of them is alone.

A few meters ahead of him the blackness seems to stir. It’s River, he realizes, her figure a shadow that’s ever so slightly more concrete than the rest of the room. Her almost decipherable form shifts again, testing her own bonds no doubt, and the Doctor realizes that it's only the darkness that blinds him. Flooded by a fresh wave of optimism, he can’t help but playfully ask, “A stampede of what?”

“Does it matter?” River snaps back, clearly taken aback.

“Does it ma-? Of course it matters! I’ve seen whole herds of horned sloths run so gracefully they don’t even disturb the grass. So technically, saying I’m as subtle as a stampede could be taken as a compliment.”

He expects her to rebut by referencing a thousand other stampeding creatures known for their noise and destruction or possibly make some clever dig about his decided lack of both coordination and grace, but instead, all she offers is a flat, “Sloths don’t run.”

It’s his turn to be caught off guard, brow furrowing as he says, “Of course they do.”

“No, sweetie, they don’t. That’s why they’re called sloths.”

“Oh,” the Doctor blinks into the darkness, confused. “Then what did I see?”

“Not a sloth,” River states, and though his vision is compromised, he can feel the way she rolls her eyes. “Now shut up and think of a plan.”

Wiggling against his restraints and trying his best to spontaneously develop night vision, the Doctor queries, “Who says I don’t have a plan?”                                                                                                                               

Even in the dark, he can feel the smug way her eyes trace his shadow. “You’re rambling,” she offers, candid and knowing. “You don’t have a plan.”

“Okay. Maybe not.” He concedes his battle against the restraints. “But I have them right where I want them. Uncomfortable chairs, intimidating dark room, annoyingly tight handcuffs: this is perfect for interrogation."

“I don’t think you’re grasping the concept of interrogation,” River deadpans, and the Doctor shrugs.

“Regardless, we still have the upper hand."

"How exactly do you figure that? Do you have any weapons? Backup? An escape plan?"

"Ah you see, it's much more elegant than that,” he boasts, sitting a little straighter and wishing more than anything that he could adjust his bowtie. “They don’t know that I knew this was a trap, ergo, we have the element of surprise.”

"We're going to die.” the words drop from River’s mouth like an anvil: bold, obtuse, and crushing.

The Doctor deflates. “Must you always be so negative?”

“Must you always be so useless?” River counters him effortlessly as they bicker like their lives aren’t in danger. He shouldn’t smirk at that, but he does anyway, rejoicing in their familiar banter. However, the amusement fades from his face when he hears her sigh. It’s a shuddering, calming kind of exhale, and it strikes him that she isn’t enjoying his company nearly so much as he’s enjoying hers. Still angry with him, then. He can feel her closing her borders once again, locking everything up tight behind impenetrable walls. But there will be time to whittle away her fortress and regain her trust later. First, they have to get out of this mess.

Remembering the sting at the back of his neck, he gracelessly changes the subject. “Earlier, when I found you, what happened?”

“They tranqed you,” River explains, and the image of purple veins winding across his neck and back instantly flood his brain. “As far as I can tell, it’s the same solution they used at the Fairs. They got me, too, back at my house.”

Her house, he’d almost forgotten about it, the broken picture frames and shattered tables and upturned furniture. Her home destroyed because he chased her away, left her vulnerable when he should have protected her. His eyes shut against the oppressive darkness, head thumping back against his chair. “I’m sorry,” he admits, more seriously this time, “I’ve arsed up this rescue quite spectacularly, haven’t I?”

She doesn’t agree or tease him by making jokes at his expense. River simply hums in response, acknowledgment but not forgiveness. Given everything that’s happened, even that is probably more than he deserves. Between them, silence stretches on, and he’s just about to apologize again when River finally says, “How did you even know I was in need of rescue?”

“When you left the TARDIS, I followed you,” he answers, honest and unashamed.

“Why?” River presses, her voice edged with curiosity so genuine it makes his hearts ache. She still doesn’t believe that he’d follow her anywhere for no other reason than the joy of filling his lungs with the forgotten air she leaves behind.

He wants to tell her that he loves her, that he meant it when he said he couldn’t lose her again. But he doesn’t dare try to confess something so bold to her now. The sentiment would be wasted this soon after their fight. Instead, he lets the tone of his voice, reverent and tender, sing the words his tongue longs to say. “I promised to keep you safe.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she snaps defensively, and the Doctor’s eyes fall closed in defeat.

“I know,” he admits in a sigh, taking the time to inhale another deep breath before tentatively beginning again. “Listen, River, about what happened-”

“Really? You want to do this now? You know, for a lord of time, your timing really is awful.”

“You’re the one complaining we’re about to die. Seems like a good time as any to clear the air.”

River lets out an exasperated sigh, “Can you please get your priorities in order?”

He tries not to flinch, his coming words heavy with the sincerest kind of honesty. “You are my priority.”

“Don’t,” River warns, slicing the air with a single syllable.

“Why?” the Doctor counters, just as persistent, and River snaps.

“Because you’ve giving me a headache!”

The Doctor falls silent. Headache. _Headache_. “I don’t have a headache!”

River scoffs. “Congratulations.”

“No,” he shakes his head, clarifying, “I mean _why._ Why don’t I have a headache? You had a headache at the caves, after they shot you. If it was the tranq that caused it, why don’t we have headaches now?”

Interest peaked, River seems to consider him before asking, “Do you think it’s important?”

“Yes,” he declares with certainty. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Maybe. Probably. Almost definitely.” Offering a final, discouraged sigh, he admits, “I don’t know.”

Before silence has a chance to reclaim the room, the sound of groaning metal fills the air. Squeaky hinges protest as the door’s own weight pulls it open, spilling the faintest bit of light into the black room. River doesn’t flinch at the abrupt noise; instead, her figure stiffens, alert and ready.

Not a moment later, the room is flooded by sudden, oppressive light. The Doctor compulsively casts his head downward, eyes shut tight as they struggle to adjust to the assault. Still seeing spots, he looks up, eyes reflexively seeking out River. He finds that the entire room hasn’t been lit, just the center. A series of spotlights illuminate them, leaving the rest of the room in darkness.

As he suspected, River sits across from him. She has her chin tilted away from him, hiding the left side of her face. He doesn’t have time to wonder why, distracted by the curve of her neck and the purple veins creeping across her throat. The web of violet disappears beneath her clothing, emerging again on the exposed skin of her arm. The deep purple tendrils stand proud beneath her skin, coiling all the way down to her elbow. The angry color is it’s brightest at her shoulder, swirling around a patch of pink, burned flesh where the tranquilizer must have pierced her skin.

On the bright side, the burns aren’t as bad as before, which suggest a different type of gun, one with a silencer probably. But it’s definitely the same anesthetic so, while powerful, the formula isn’t as deadly as he’d originally believed. Unless his inner body clock has been affected, he’s only been unconscious for just over an hour. Which mean his panicked response back at the caves was entirely unnecessary, or as River would say, _a stupid waste of regeneration energy_. He almost chuckles at that, but there’s something tugging at the back of his mind, something hot and tingly that leads him to believe he’s on the brink of discovery. Or perhaps he’s already figured it out and his conscious mind just hasn’t gotten the memo yet.

The shuffling of feet draws his attention and the thought is gone, lost to shadows and ambient noise. Boots scrape against the floor, three, no, four sets of feet filing into the room. They keep to the shadows, hiding their faces, but the Doctor can hear them just fine as they take their places strategically around the room. The first to enter is tall, if his long gate is anything to go by, and he takes his position at the far corner of the room in only a few long strides. The next is shorter, taking quick, clipped steps and tapping his fingers nervously against his gun as he hurries into position. The source of the foot shuffling comes third, tucking himself into position by the door. But it's the heavy breather settling in behind River that draws his attention most. The man’s breathes are ragged and pained, as if every exhale is a chore. Another erratic wheeze drags its way from the man's lungs, hitching when he attempts to draw air back in. It isn't a pleasant or natural noise, most likely cause by injury rather than a bad case of asthma.

A fifth pair of feet stride in a moment later, this stroll far more relaxed. "What time is it?" a deep voice asks, confident and casual as it emanates from the darkness. Something about it pulls at the Doctor’s memory like a puppet on a string. But the memory is a vague one, filed away as unimportant, now dancing just out of reach.

The pair remains stubbornly silent, and at their defiance, the oddly familiar voice tries again. "Come _on_ guys. What's the point in having to two Time Lords around if no one will tell you the time? Well,” the man pauses, and the Doctor doesn’t have to see the man’s face to know he’s smirking, “one and a half Time Lords, anyway.”

Her face still in shadow, River’s eyes find the Doctor’s. He doesn't need to read her mind to know she's silently accusing him. One of the first thoughts she shared with him floats to the forefront of his mind: _they don't even know what species I am._ It’s just one more thing he knew and chose to withhold. River breaks eye contact as quickly as she forged it, saying nothing, eyes now fixed somewhere over the Doctor’s shoulder.

The leader gives an exaggerated sigh, giving up on his prisoners as he resigns himself to checking his own watch. "8:13!” he announces.  “Who had 8:13?"

There’s a soft rustling of paper being removed from a pocket and unfolded before another voice speaks up. “Leo,” the man behind River answers, and this voice the Doctor recognizes instantly as the man from the alley way. Ah, so that explains the labored breathing. He hasn't quite recovered from his first run in with River.

The leader of said group can be heard walking to the far corner of the room, where he pats the shoulder of the tall man the Doctor can only assume is ‘Leo.’ There’s some faint hooting and ambiguous conversation between the men, but the Doctor ignores their half-hearted celebration, keeping his eyes trained on River, watching her curiously.

"We had a bet on how long it would take you to make your grand entrance," the leader says, filling them in on their little joke. His voice is overly friendly and just a little bit slimy like that of a used-car salesman. Even if it weren’t for the way River’s sharp eyes follow the voice around the room, the Doctor can feel the way the man paces just behind his chair.

“It only took you three hours and seventeen minutes. Not bad for you, all things considered,” he chuckles to himself, his demeanor too friendly, too personal. “I had you pinned somewhere around a day. But it seems I under estimated you!" The man slaps the Doctor’s shoulder playfully and River stiffens, her eyes watching the hand that rests on his shoulder like she wants to relieve it from the rest of the man’s arm. "But don't worry,” the man continues, softer this time, a dangerous edge chilling his previously jovial tone. “I won't do that again."

Conscious of her movements or not, River tugs discreetly at her bonds, jaw clenching. The sudden shift is enough to reveal what she'd been trying to hide. A fresh bruise, purple and green, blooms on her left cheek, and it makes the Doctor's blood boil.

The man must notice the Doctor’s staring because the hand currently resting on his shoulder gives a light squeeze. "Ah, I see you've spotted her little shiner,” the man offers conversationally, removing his hand to continue in his pacing. “She's a feisty one, bit one of my best boys when he tried to put her gag back in. Poor fella ended up needing stitches.“

“So I responded in kind,” the man from the alley speaks up again, the self-satisfied tone of his voice making the Doctor bristle.

The leader tuts before addressing the Doctor again. “That’s Pavo. I believe you’ve already met. Between you and me, I think he's still a little sore about what happened in London. We told him not to let it ruffle his feathers too much. There’s no shame in losing a fight, especially against _River Song_! Even if she’s more _damaged_ than goods these-“

“That's enough!” the Doctor snaps, his voice cracking at the air like a whip.

"He speaks!" the leader rejoices, giving his hands a resound clap. "Good, good. Speaking helps us get to know each other, to _understand_ each other. That's why I'm doing a bit of talking. I'm catching you up! Because, you see, I already know quite a bit about you. For example, I know you have an affinity for pretty girls. I know that you claim to despise violence and yet you routinely go looking for it. I also know you never carry a weapon. So you can imagine how surprised we were when we searched you and found this.”

The blaster the Doctor had taken from River’s home clatters carelessly to the floor, sliding across the smooth surface until it stills in the middle of the room. The Doctor watches River, her eyes sparkling with longing as it comes to a stop just out of reach. "Bit ostentation if you ask me," the man says sociably, and suddenly the Doctor finds his view of River has been eclipsed.

The man before him is tall and imposing, his earlier joviality replaced by something far more predatory as he stares the Doctor down. He bends over, resting his hands on the arms of the Doctor’s chair and leaning into his personal space. He has a kind face with handsome features and a strong jaw. It's his voice, effortlessly switching between indifferent and ruthless, that makes the Doctor just a tiny bit nervous. "And thanks to your little outburst, I just learned that you've got a soft spot for Goldilocks, here. So if I want to get you to talk again, I'll go through her. Basically, what I'm saying is, you play nice and so will I." The man's eyes soften instantly, flashing a cocky grin that stretches his cheeks with all the charming overconfidence of a...

The Doctor’s eyes flash down to the man's overstretched smile, remembering hot, Asgardian air, a beeping in his top pocket and _,_ _"You can never have too much of a good thing." The man besides them chimes in and the Doctor's eyes find him for the first time. The man smiles like a cowboy and looks like a modern day Prince Charming, with a strong chin and broad shoulders. The Doctor supposes he's attractive, if one was into that ruggedly handsome sort of thing._

The memory triggers another, the dry air of Asgard now over processed and filtered, the heat of the sun replaced by air conditioning, a desk, and four familiar walls and, _"Oh, and there was someone asking for you earlier, Professor."_

_River's lips curl like she's tasted something sour. "Not another member of the archive committee, I hope. It's all paperwork with those people."_

_"I don't think so," Xarida giggles. "He was much too cute for that."_

The light of recognition must burn bright in his eyes because the other man’s grin bleeds into a smirk. “Ah, so you do remember me! Good. Good. I was starting to think you'd lost your touch.” The Cowboy stands upright, turning to River and stepping fully into the light, voice taunting. “You remember me, don't you, sugar?"

The Doctors view of River remains blocked, but he can feel her disgust biting at the air like a cool winter breeze. "Oh yes. I remembered your unique brand of narcissism and cheap cologne the second you walked into the room."

The man barks out an abrasive laugh, eyes still fixed admiringly on River. "You seemed quite taken by it at Asgard."

"The only thing you took from me was my appetite."

"You say that now. As I recall, you were quite annoyed when he dragged you away from my company.” His head tilts to the side like a bird of prey eyeing its next meal. Gaze still locked onto River as he continues, “What irritates you more, Doc? The fact that I used force to bring your girl home with me or that I could have just smiled and asked nicely?"

The Doctor says nothing, his jaw flexing dangerously, but River draws out a condescending chuckle. "Oh honey, all the pretty smiles in the world wouldn't get me to come home with a prick like you."

"And yet here you are," he coos with a voice so smug it makes the Doctors skin crawl. Without another word to River, he spins around, addressing the Doctor with curious enthusiasm. "And you! You found us all on your own. And so quickly! How'd you manage that?"

The airwaves are met with more silence from the Doctor. Except this time, it’s less out of stubbornness and more a result of confusion. Didn’t they know he’d found the beacon? If they didn’t leave it then, who did? He can’t tell a blessing from a curse anymore.

“Never mind how I found you,” the Doctor responds, voice betraying nothing. “Why did you want me to?”

“Straight to business, I like that.” The Cowboy saunters fully into the light now, strolling casually in the space separating the Doctor from his wife. “It’s really quite simple. You have something. We want it.”

“Me?” Confusion furrows the Doctor’s brow. That can’t be right. This was about River. If they wanted him, why go after River in the first place? Why steal her diary and follow her timeline? Why taint her memories?

“If you wanted something of mine, why drag River into this? Unless… you were looking for something you knew I’d never give you.”

“Bingo,” the Cowboy chimes, tossing a charismatic wink.

The Doctor huffs out a laugh. “Then you clearly don’t know River. She’s even more stubborn than I am. She’d never willingly tell you-“ the Doctor’s words lodge in his throat, epiphany hitting him like a train. They traveled along her timeline, but not because they have her diary. They never did. They wouldn’t need to when they have, "The Library."

The man’s grin widens in approval. “Now he gets it.”

“I don’t,” River barks. “What’s going on?”

“They took them,” the Doctor declares, voiced laced with fresh disdain. “They _physically_ took your memories. This was no ordinary case of amnesia and the blocks in your mind aren’t blocks at all. They’re an absence. It wasn’t an error in routine maintenance that wiped half the Library’s files. It was them. _They ripped_ your memories from you in the data core and got a bit more than they bargained for. CAL didn't spit you out to keep you from being deleted. _You_ crashed the system from the inside and ejected yourself because it was the only chance of protecting what was taken.”

“What’s so important about my memories?” River asks, eyes fixed on the Doctor despite their audience. “And what does any of this have to do with you?”

At her question, the Doctor falls guiltily quiet. Cowboy takes the opportunity to intervene, breaking the Doctor’s eye contact with River by stepping between them, speaking directly to River. “We weren’t trying to extract any old memories from your brain. We wanted something specific. Didn’t he tell you what all your missing memories had in common? It’s him. He wasn’t just one of many things you forgot. He’s the focal point.”

Making his way over to River, Cowboy crouches down in front of her, retrieving a small disk from his pocket. It catches the light, sparking as he twirls it in his fingers. Entirely unenthralled, River’s apathetic eyes flick over the object before snapping back to the man before her.

“It's a Neural-Relay Recovery disk," he explains, watching the item with his own brand of tepid interest. “Which means it’s all right here. Your birth. Your death. Your parents. Your graduation from University. Your childhood, well, one of them anyway. The others were too broken and muddled to make must sense out of. We even found some information on the Church in here. Which, I must admit, was a bit of a surprise.” The man offers her a sly smile. “You have quite a few skeletons hidden in here, little Melody Pond.”

River shakes her head. “My childhood? Why would you take information from there? He didn’t know me then.”

“Did _he_ tell you that?” the Cowboy smirks, each silent second filling the air with so much accusation the Doctor feels like his lungs have been clouded with smog. “It’s an interesting story, actually,” the man continues, toying with the precious article as if it were little more than a fairground trinket. It all seems so wrong to the Doctor, that their life together could be contained by an item so small, existing on something no larger than the palm of his hand. “Your childhood was stolen because of him. You were raised as a weapon to take him down, your entire reason for being. But of course he didn't tell you that. He lies. He sells fairytales. And that’s certainly one where he isn’t the hero.”

The Doctor wants to deny it, but how can he when not one word of it is a lie? Even River remains quiet, stunned, or perhaps angry at yet another piece of the puzzle she hadn’t been privy to. He can see how her thoughts buzz behind her eyes as she tries to make sense of the picture being painted. Confessions and deceptions and truths and lies all splashed out on a canvas, colors bleeding and merging until nothing can be deciphered except infinite shades of grey.

“So in a way,” the man speaks again. At the sound of his voice, River’s eyes un-cloud, focusing on him with a deadly accuracy. “We did you a favor. He didn’t even trust you with your own past. But I do. And you've been on my side of the law before. We understand each other and I know you can respect that.”

There's sincerity in his voice, hints of mutual understanding and companionship. It makes the Doctor itch down in his bones, something dry and seething crawling just beneath his skin. River remains the picture of composure, batting her lashes and eyeing Cowboy knowingly. “So if you're the good guys in all this, why did you have to capture me? Why couldn't you just ask?”

The man nods, pursing his lips in consideration.“We might have if he hadn’t found you first. And look how that turned out. Did he do anything besides fill your head with lies?” The Cowboy lifts his arm, placing an empathetic hand on his chest. “Me, on the other hand, I’ve done nothing but tell you the truth. We’ve been talking for, what, ten minutes? And I’ve already told you more than he ever did. So believe me when I tell you, you can trust my word over his. No matter how unpleasant it may seem.”

The practiced composure on River’s face slips, hardening into stone, cold, determined, and emotionless as she asks,“What do you want?”

“It’s simple, really.” The man tucks the device away, standing from his crouched position. His imposing form looms over River, blocking the Doctor’s view. “We want his name.”

The Doctor remains frozen in fear, waiting for River to make the first move. He can’t see her, but when she speaks, her voice is calm, calculated. “What do you want with it?”

“Well, sugar, that’s really none of your business, is it?”

His condescending tone shakes the Doctor back to life, drawing every head in the room as his commanding voice cuts through the stale air. “No, but it’s mine. So what’s it to you? Why are you doing this?”

Spinning on a heel, Cowboy turns to face the Doctor, a derisive smirk etched across his chiseled features. “Is this the part where I tell you my evil plan?”

“Oh come off it,” The Doctor snaps, the passion in him sparking to life as he attempts to take hold of the situation. “Everything about you is secondhand. Your hideout is dusty and abandoned and your tech is stolen. Why would your ideas be your own? So tell me, who do you work for?”

The Doctor’s command for answers goes unheeded, the leader of the group answering him with nothing but a smirk, cruel amusement dancing in his deceptively friendly eyes.

“They're pirates, Doctor.” River speaks up, somehow managing to sound both bored and exasperated. “Just like the goon in the alley said. They work for themselves. They don't have a cause and they don't answer to anyone except the highest bidder.”

“We prefer the term _mercenary_ ,” the other man leers, and River rolls her eyes at the correction. “Secrets are worth money.” With a nonchalant shrug, the Cowboy makes his way back toward the Doctor. He keeps to the edge of the spotlight, his overconfident swagger straddling the shadowy divide between light and dark. “The bigger the secret, the bigger the price tag. Simple.”

The Doctor scoffs, disgusted by the utter ridiculousness of their plan, because, honestly, being kidnapped by a bunch of bloody space pirates who intend to sell his name off to one of his many enemies was not how he envisioned this day going. “Well, she can’t tell you and I won’t tell you. So this is all pointless, really.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the Cowboy whispers conspiratorially before turning his attention back to River and addressing her cheerfully. “What do you think, honey? You going to let him speak for you like that? Because that certainly doesn’t sound like the woman I’ve learned so much about.”

The Doctor peels his eyes away from the smug expression of their interrogator, landing instead on the impassive face of River Song. She's holding up remarkably better than he is, looking spitefully comfortable despite her bound hands and feet. If it weren't for the bruise blossoming on her cheek and vibrant purple veins climbing her neck, one could easily mistake her demeanor for that of a casual Sunday brunch.

“What makes you think I even know it?” she antagonizes, winging a mocking brow. The other man simply bites back a smirk, something dark and sinister rumbling in his throat.

“I’ll let you in on another little secret he probably didn’t tell you. You’re his wife. Well, you were. Then you died and he swanned off and picked up this adorable little brunette. But he probably didn’t tell you about her either.” Rivers eyes flick absentmindedly to the Doctor, holding his gaze as the other man continues his animated tale. “But your wedding, oh yes, that was the first memory we tried to break into. My favorite bit is when he tells you you’re an embarrassment. Truly touching vows there, Doc.”

The Doctor’s hearts flutter at the sight of River’s sea green eyes, streaks of blue shining with hurt and confusion sparkling in her golden irises. But her vulnerability flashes and fades like lightning, and in the breath between his heartbeats, she hardens back to stone. “I don’t know it. And if I ever did, it would be in the memories you already took.”

“That might very well be true. But you see, we can only access superficial places and events. At first I thought it was a corruption due to all the time you spent as miscellaneous code. But then I noticed that the memories hadn't been eroded. They were safeguarded with an encryption key.” The man chuckles, as bewildered as he is impressed. “I've never seen anything like it used in someone's brain before."

“And you think I know how to access them,” River states evenly, and the man before her beams, twisting his body to address the Doctor.

“Clever, this one, and pretty.” The smirk he flashes is slimy enough to make the Doctor’s skin crawl, but it isn't a comfort when the man turns away, effortlessly devoting his full attention back on River. “Just between you and me, he didn’t tell you that nearly enough. So what do you say, will you help us?”

River remains unfazed by the pitiful attempt at flattery, merely arching a challenging brow. “And why should I?”

“Because, like I said, it’s all right here.” He gives a mocking pat on the pocket containing River’s memories. “And I can give them all back to you just as easily as I took them away.

“He’s lying!” the Doctor speaks up, drawing both their eyes. “That’s just as likely to fry your brain as it is to restore it.”

“Well, if you want to get technical…” The man shrugs innocently, but the Doctor pays him little mind, his warnings meant solely for River.

“Remember what Casia said? You have to build up the brain slowly. Push too much on it at once and it will give out on you. We’ll find another way to-”

“And if I don’t want them back?” River interrupts. Her gaze is pinned directly on the Doctor as she says it, an emotion he can't identify hiding behind her unblinking stare. Cold and fierce, her eyes break from his, taking with her the Doctor’s ability to breathe. She diverts her attention back to their captor, and he is left to watch, helpless and transfixed, as she says, “How would you persuade me to help you, then?”

What seems to be a permanent smirk is plastered to the Cowboy’s face as he begins once again sauntering his way about the room. “Did he even tell you that he's the reason you died?” he sing songs, answering her question with another. “He let you take his place. You died, for him, and he left you there and swanned off like it was nothing. He's used to it, you see, people dying for him. But you don’t have to. Not this time. Not if you tell us what we want to know.”

River holds the man’s gaze for an eternal moment, neither of them blinking or willing to concede. The Doctor watches them, knowing full well what the other man is trying to do. He can smell it in the knowing way the other man speaks. They're trying to divide them, wedge a stake between him and River, possibly even pull her to their side. Under normal circumstances, the Doctor would laugh at such an idea. But here, now, trapped between everything she knows and all the moments she can’t remember, all the Doctor can do is wait, breathless and hopeful.

Eventually, River speaks, breaking the silence with a stoic, “I can’t tell you.”

“Why?” The man spits, whirring on her with determined eyes and a purposeful tone. “Out of loyalty to him? He isn’t who you think he is, honey.”

River looks to the Doctor, that old familiar sadness sparkling in the golden flecks of her irises. “I know. But I still can’t help you.” She breaks her eyes from the Doctor’s, blinking away the melancholy as her voice adopts a more playful tone, a flirty bravado always her most effective defense. “Until a few hours ago, I thought his name was John. I’d actually be very interested to find out the truth myself if you wouldn’t mind sharing when you do find out.”

Cowboy watches her for a moment, sizing her up, before huffing out a resigned sigh. "Have it your way." Then, the man shifts, inclining his chin towards his team as he instructs, "Onto plan B."


	19. Till Death Do Us Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I won't bore you with excuses as to why the wait was so long, just know that I'm sorry! 
> 
> There is a potential VIOLENCE DISCLAIMER for this chapter. I don't think it's that graphic, but I'm always iffy about stuff like this, so heads up. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy and I'm sorry.

“I answer her with my silence, understanding the full power of it for the first time. Words are weapons. Weapons are powerful. So are unsaid words. So are unused weapons.” -Emily Murdoch

* * *

 

“Plan B?” the Doctor scoffs, watching as Cowboy turns his back on his prisoners to pace near the shadows once again. The empty space between the Doctor and River doesn’t stay uninhabited for long because one of the goons steps forward from the darkness. It’s the tall one with the wide gate, the one they'd called Leo. Whatever Plan B is, it must be this man’s prize for winning the bet because he steps into the light, stopping near River’s chair with an arrogant smirk that twists his lips so far upward the smug expression could easily be mistaken for a snarl. He’s certainly a big fellow, standing stiff shouldered and straight backed, with a haircut that reads military and a cruel glint in his eyes that screams dishonorable discharge. “What is this, some kind of good cop, bad cop routine?”

“More like bad cop, worse cop,” Leo’s voice rumbles, deep and menacing and every bit as formidable as his posture and build. 

Never one to be intimidated by brute force, the Doctor merely snorts, his attention span waning and eyes wandering aloofly about the room. “Well, you can torture me as much as you like. Mind, it looks like you _do_ enjoy it, which is just as well because you’ll be at it for quite a while. Pain’s never been a good motivator for me.”

Cowboy pauses in his pacing to fix his undivided attention on the Doctor. Face still half in shadow, Cowboy tilts his head, his expression of innocent curiosity more than a little unsettling. “Who says it’s you we'll be hurting?”

It takes the Doctor little more than a heartbeat to understand the man’s meaning, and his eyes snap back to River in time to witness the back of Leo’s hand colliding with River’s already bruised cheek. The sound of flesh connecting with flesh rings sharply in the air but the Doctor drowns it out, his angry voice thundering out of his throat. “Touch her again and you'll get nothing, you understand me? Nothing!"

“No, no, no, Doctor. You’ve got that backwards,” Cowboy coos, patronizing in tone as well as expression. “You see, I'm in charge here." The man gives a curt nod, just a slightest twitch of his chin and Leo responds like a well-trained dog, landing a blow to River’s gut.

The Doctor nearly upends his iron chair as he thrashes, wrists tugging violently at their restraints in an effort to get to River’s side. His labors only cease at the sound of River’s voice. She’s laughing, of all things, breathless and smiling, face only slightly contorted by pain. “You boys sure do like to play rough, don’t you?” she pants, amused and teasing and not at all fearful for her own life.

“Only as rough as we need to be, Doll,” Cowboy chimes, stepping past the Doctor and into the darkness. “One word from him and we’ll stop.”

Leo’s eyes follow his master like an eager pup waiting for permission to snag another treat. His focus stills just beyond where the Doctor is sitting, vision locked on the shadows just past the Doctor’s shoulder. Felt but not seen, the menacing presence makes a chill prick up the Doctor’s spine, the close proximity making his skin tingle and burn. It’s sick the way Cowboy hovers so near, as if to ensure he bears witness to everything the Doctor is being forced to watch. It’s a tactic they assume will make him weak, but all it does is make him angry and dangerous and vengeful.

Even now, the Doctor can feel how his blood boils, how his hands clench into fists and a low rasp in his throat betrays his practiced tone of calm. “This is between me and you. Leave her out of this.”

“Now, why would I do that when I already learned earlier that the quickest way to get you to talk is through her?” The Cowboy tilts his head like a curious bird of prey, eyes fixed on the Doctor as he instructs, “Again."

At the command, Leo lands a right hook on River’s increasingly bruised cheek. Her tongue snakes out, licking at the corner of her mouth for blood, but she says nothing, no pained grunts or expletives, no threats or promises of revenge. River lets her eyes do the talking for her, sharp and deadly as they watch Leo like he’s the only soul in the room. In this moment, they aren’t the soft, green eyes of his lover. They are predatory, curious and determined, as if the man before her is a mouse and she a jungle cat toying with her next meal.

“Let's make one thing clear,” Cowboy whispers, hot breath burning the Doctor’s skin as he leans over the Doctor’s shoulder from behind. “You're not in charge here. I am. So if you want Goldilocks to leave here as pretty as she arrived, you'll answer my question."

Despite his revulsion at the other man’s proximity, the Doctor makes no reaction. He simply stares straight ahead, brows set, eyes locked on River, and jaw clenched tight in defiance.

The other man chuckles, standing erect and retreating back into the shadows. "You do the strong, silent type well. I can see why she'd fancy you,” he teases, then sighs. “Shame it might get her killed. And we will kill her, if we have to. It's up to you if you want to watch her die again.”

“Cryin' shame if we do,” Leo speaks up, eyeing River with a patronizing sneer as he crouches down to inspect her swollen cheek and blood stained lips. “Such a pretty thing when she's angry.”

“Well you know what they say,” River purrs, leaning towards him, eyes sparkling like she’s about to impart a secret.

Hypnotized and unable to resist the invitation, Leo grins back, daring to lean in closer. “What do they say?”

The flirt in his voice makes River chuckle. It’s low and throaty, luring her prey in like a sailor to a siren song. Eyelashes fluttering, she coos, “Jamais confiance à un joli visage.” 

Leo’s brow furrows, her whispered warning sinking in a fraction too late as River’s sweet smile falls like a theater curtain. The innocent charade vanishes as she closes the distance between them, slamming the blunt part of her forehead into the sensitive bridge of his nose.

The encounter results in a sickening crunch, followed by Leo’s lifeless body crumpling to the floor, unconscious. The Doctor watches in awe, a flicker of pride warming his chest as River straightens her shoulders. Shaking out her hair and reclining effortlessly against her chair, she translates, “Never trust a pretty face.”

The twitch in the corner of her lips makes his gorgeous little assassin look unbearably smug. Rightfully so, the Doctor thinks, observing her cool demeanor and the ease at which she took down a man nearly twice her size. It’s comforting to know that she didn’t get it all from Kovarian, that she’s stubborn and strong and capable because those traits are written in the very fiber of her being. No matter her history, River Song will always be amazing.

The Cowboy must agree because he barks out a laugh, clapping his hands together, gleeful despite the sight of his accomplice sprawled across the floor. “Kitty has claws,” he sniggers, gesturing for his nearest goon to remove Leo’s body. The nervous one with the clipped steps and tapping fingers appears out of the shadows, quickly dragging Leo’s unconscious body out of sight. The Cowboy takes center stage instead, all but leering at River as he says, “Maybe we won't kill her. Maybe we’ll wipe her memory completely and keep her. What do you say, boys? Could be fun.”

At his words, a quiet rumble of laugher echoes around the room. And yet, even as he threatens her, the Cowboy keeps his distance. River smells the fear he wears like a bad cologne, and, being the predator she is, she takes the opportunity to challenge him back, tilting her chin up in defiance, her voice a dangerous invitation. “Let me out of these restraints and you’ll see just how _fun_ I can be.”

“Let you out?” he gapes with faux offense. “But we’re just getting started.”

With a snap of his fingers, the shadows begin to move once again, the darkness solidifying into the familiar form of the man from the Frost Fairs. _What had Cowboy called him? Pavo_? He’s dressed differently than he was in London, back to his uniform of all black, a gun around his hip and thick combat boots strapped to his feet. However, the most notable contrast can be found on his face. The fallout of Pavo’s last tangle with River has resulted in a large splint now bandaging his nose. The Doctor has to bite back a smile, pleased by how much damage River can cause to those foolish enough to back her into corners.

As the lanky man steps into River’s view, she lets out an exasperated huff, rolling her eyes. “Not you again,” she complains. “I’m starting to think you have a crush on me.”

“Something like that,” Pavo sneers, before landing a powerful punch to River’s abdomen, momentarily knocking the wind and hubris right out of her. The force of his blow is enough to cause her form to curl in on itself, doubling over as far as her restraints will allow.

“Oh, he’s eager,” she delights, hair parting as she looks up to reveal a devilish grin. “I do love it when they bring enthusiasm into the foreplay. But your technique needs work. Too much hands, not enough mouth.”

The sound of the second punch is swallowed by the Doctor’s sharp intake of breath. Even River is too winded to bait her captors further, coughing slightly as she turns her head to expel a mouthful of blood. The Doctor casts his eyes away, hoping the image of River, bent over and bleeding, hasn’t already made a home in his subconscious. He's seen her in enough pain to last multiple life times. A truth he won’t tell and a memory she can’t possibly procure is the only thing keeping her from a chance at safety. Why is it the path to saving her is always impossible to reach? Why is it always his fault? Why must his penance always be paid through her?

“If I tell you,” the Doctor breathes, low and steady, “there’s nothing stopping you from just killing her anyway. So here's the deal," he pins his gaze to Cowboy, hazel eyes burning and a dangerous promise sparking on his tongue. “Let her go and I'll tell you anything you want. You don't and you'll regret the day you ever thought it would be a good idea to threaten the woman I love.”

“The woman you love? Hah!” The Cowboy’s snide remark thickens in the atmosphere, contaminating the oxygen and congealing the very air in the Doctor’s lungs. “Oh, he talks a big game. And yet he’s not done a damn thing to help you.”

The Doctor’s eyes fall inevitably to River. She’s somewhat recovered, sitting straight backed in her chair with an insufferable smirk once again curling her bruised cheek. She’s a master of her craft, but even masters have their methods, and the Doctor can see River’s carefully constructed defenses beginning to fracture. He sees it in the subtle things: the quiet tension in her jaw, the flex of her fingers as they ache for a weapon. But mostly, he feels it in her silence. He declared his love only to have it thrown back in his face. The woman that word is meant for, the woman who gave up her remaining lives, who tore apart the universe, who laid down her life for him, does nothing but watch him with apprehensive eyes. Her vision darts between the two men like she’s trying to choose between the lesser of two evils. The man who’s hurting her or the man who’s letting it happen? The man who claims to love her with the same tongue that’s spoken so many lies or the man who’s spoken only truth and asks nothing from her but a name?

The Doctor’s eyes must be pleading or desperate or guilty or perhaps just the right amount of broken because River’s eyes seem to hold his just a fraction longer. It’s hardly even a breath, quicker than a heartbeat, little more than the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, but it’s enough.

The Cowboy must notice it, too, because he spins around, pinning an iron glare on the Doctor. “This is what you do, isn't it? Get people to die for you, sacrifice themselves so the _hero_ can carry on.” He scoffs and it’s all accusal and degradation. But in the next moment, the man’s voice flips like a switch, turning slowly back to River with heavy eyes and a tone that speaks of sympathy.  “He’s used to people being dragged through the mud to keep him clean. You more than anyone, probably.” 

River merely quirks a brow, effortlessly meeting the man’s gaze as she remains unflappable in the face of what he surely meant to be an inspirational speech. “My, my, my, what a colorful past I must have. Aren't I lucky you boys showed up to remind me of all the things I'd forgotten.”

The Doctor smirks at that, at her, still his River, and in the back of his mind, something clicks. Not just forgotten, taken. And it wasn’t just any memories, it was their life together, their precious, private memories. But not just precious, _unique_. And not just private, _coded_. Protected because- _of course_.

“How’s this for a reason not to hurt her?” The Doctor cuts in, confident and unabashed. “She's clever. I'm clever. You're not. Did you really think something as big as my name would be so easily stolen? You want to know why you can't access certain memories? We have something none of you do, and I don't just mean brains. I mean genetics. Those memories are key coded to Time Lord DNA. You have to be part Time Lord to even _think_ about having cognitive access. So you ought to be very _very_ careful where you point that gun and whose head you’re smacking around. Because you’re wrong. You do need her. She’s your only hope at recovering those memories because I'm sure as hell not going to help you."

Cowboy studies him, taking in the new information. It isn’t long before a deadly smirk spreads across his cheeks, a playful challenge in his eyes as he says, “Let’s test that theory, shall we? Pavo,” he barks, eyes still trained on the Doctor. “Aim for one of her knees. She doesn’t need both.”

Pavo reaches for his sidearm and the Doctor feels his hearts race, beating in double time as he helplessly watches a weapon he despises more than any other in the universe being pointed at the woman that means more to him than any living thing. 

“This is your last warning,” the Doctor breathes, voice calm and threatening like the rising rumble of a distant storm. “Let her go, and when I get out of here, I'll show mercy. You pull that trigger and I can't promise what my actions will be.”

Grim silence overtakes the room while Cowboy briefly contemplates the thinly veiled threat, his cold eyes sizing the Doctor up in their little game of chicken, trying to decipher just how much more it will take to make him crack, how much pain he’ll let River endure before finally giving in. The Cowboy must find whatever it is he’s looking for dwelling dormant in the back of the Doctor’s hazel eyes, because a sly smile tugs at his lips as he declares, “No deal.”

Pavo’s finger inches toward the trigger and River’s eyes flash with the briefest hint of fear. She’s quick to bury it deep, steeling herself for the inevitable pain. Stubbornly, she holds the man’s gaze, proof that she’s not afraid, that even though it’s her that’s tied to a chair, it’s him who should be frightened. The man’s finger twitches again, waiting for instruction and River clenches her jaw, determined not to scream, not to give them the satisfaction. The Cowboy takes a deep breath, dragging oxygen in through his nose as he lets the air in the room thicken, anticipation building building _building_ because at any moment he will give the signal and Pavo’s finger will twitch and the trigger will pull and there isn’t a damn thing the Doctor can do to stop it.

“I'll tell you," River’s voice cuts through the thick silence and Pavo’s finger relaxes.

"Sorry, what was that?" Cowboy speaks first, spinning to face her, all three men now staring at River in puzzled shock. The Doctor seems to be the most perplexed, gaping at her in stunned silence as his hearts fluctuate between panic and reprieve.

River holds the Cowboy’s gaze, cold and determined. “Give me back my memories and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“And what makes you think I’d give them to you first?”

“Because if what he said is true, that's your only option. Those memories are keyed to me, my Time Lord physiology, which means the only way you're accessing them is through my genetics.  Which, as it turns out, is a good thing because I'm the only one in this room willing to compromise with you. So. Give them back and I'll tell you everything.”

“Well,” he sighs, flashing a grin that makes the Doctor’s insides itch. “That was unexpected, and I do love a woman who’s full of surprises. But if it’s keyed to you, in theory we wouldn’t need to actually replace the memories. You could access them the same way we have, through a machine. And then,” he pauses, a darkness that has nothing to do with shadows passing over his face. “If you’re a very good girl, maybe we’ll be nice enough to return them permanently.”

“That’ll never work,” the Doctor blurts, drawing the man’s villainous eyes and malicious intent away from River by any means necessary. “It’s keyed to Time Lords, yes, but not even she can view them second hand because a third party’s presence would still interfere. A low level telepathic race wouldn’t get very far in terms of privacy if we didn’t learn to weave firewalls into our own thoughts. It automatically puts a cognitive block on memories when there’s a potential threat. Be it as simple as third party listening in or as catastrophic as interacting with your future self. The brain won’t have it. It locks the memories away until the threat is removed or you’ve reached the integral part of your timeline. I should know. I've been locked out of my own brain a time or two.”

Cowboy shares a resigned look with River, shrugging his shoulders. “Full cognitive restoration it is, then.”

The Doctor means to intervene, to tell them this is madness, but his chaotic thoughts are cut short by River. “I have conditions,” she states, all business as the other man nods.

“Naturally,” Cowboy concedes, patiently waiting her terms.

First, her eyes flick to Pavo, who still has his weapon trained on her person. “Call off your pet.”

Pavo looks to the Cowboy like a well-trained guard dog, and with a twitch of his master’s chin, he backs away, snarling like one too.

“There’s a good boy,” River teases, watching him retreat back into the shadows. “Now, down to business.” With a callous nod, she inclines her head towards the Doctor. “Let him go. We don’t need him for this anymore”

“No,” the other man counters, “But I give you my word that you’ll both be released after I get what I want.”

“Why should I trust you?” River arches a skeptical brown and the Cowboy places a hand to his chest, feigning offense.

“I’m a man of my word.” His vexed façade drops, morphing into a haughty smirk. “And right now, that’s the best you’ve got to bargain with.”

River steels herself, sharp, calculating eyes studying the man before her. With reluctant resolve, she huffs out a curt, “Fine.”

The Cowboy beams to hear it. “Glad to see you’re finally seeing sense, Professor Song.”

“No,” the Doctor breathes, or at least he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell with his pulse pounding in his ears, his entire being screaming no, no, “No, River, you can't! I know you want your life back, but this isn’t the way. You and I, not all our memories are good ones. This could be a blessing. We'll make new memories."

“You think this is about wanting to remember you?!” River narrows her eyes on him, her tone harsh enough to make every man in the room give pause. “Someone has to save us since you're doing a terrible job of it.” When he offers her nothing in return, no arguments or excuses, River lets out an aggravated huff. “Want something done, do it yourself.”

"River, this isn’t a joke. Tampering with a mind like yours is as dangerous as throwing a magnet into a minefield and as complicated as solving a twelve sided Rubrics Cube. Whatever they plan on doing to you to make you remember, it’s going to be risky, possibly fatal.” He’s desperate in his pleading, he knows. He can feel how the other men read the vulnerability on his face like a flashing neon sign. He knows his frantic words do little more than lay his greatest weaknesses at their feet, but if there’s any chance his words can save her, make her change her mind, then he just doesn’t care. “I know you're finding it hard to trust me right now-“

River scoffs, rolling her eyes, “That's an understatement.”

“-but you have to listen to me. This could kill you!”

"Hush now, the grownups are talking," River snaps authoritatively, her eyes abandoning the Doctor’s to fixate on their interrogator.

There’s a lazy smile strewn across the other man’s features, as if he’d be content to continue listening to them argue. “Why the sudden change of heart?” he asks, toying with the com device in his hands but making no moves to use it yet.

“Like you said,” River shrugs. “We’re not so different, you and I. And I know when to fold."

The man smirks, crouching down to her level and resting his palms on her chair, his face threateningly close to hers. "And if the shock kills you?"

"Then you haven't lost anything,” River offers breezily, a chillingly nonchalant expression on her face.

The Cowboy smirks to see it, brazenly running the back of his knuckle over River’s bruised cheek. “And if you die, what would you have us do to him?”

River’s inner psychopath sparks to life, the curve of her lips twitching upward and the green of her eyes sparkling with reckless disposition. "Feel free to beat the information out of _him_ for a change. I'll be dead. _Again_. What do I care?”

Cowboy looks over his shoulder at the Doctor, smirking triumphantly. "She's a real keeper, Doc,” he taunts before standing upright and devoting his attention to his communicator.

The Doctor is left to stare, helpless and bewildered. She's bluffing. She must be. River would never be so careless with another’s life. Her own, yes, but his? Never. At least, she never had been before, back in the days when she loved him, a liberty he’s no longer sure he’s granted. Looking at her now, he's never seen her walls so thick, her eyes so determined. Surely she has a plan, but at what cost?

He must look as white as a sheet because the Doctor can practically feel the blood draining from his face. Even the sounds of the room are distorted to his ears, Cowboy’s muffled voice only coming through in waves as he speaks into the communicator.

“How's it going, Phoenix?”

“Slowly,” a new voice buzzes through the device. “Every time I get close enough to touch it, it electrocutes me.” Static crackles through the speakers, followed by muted fumbling and a low hiss of pain. “Kinda feels like it’s taunting me. Can machines give you attitude?”

Cowboy laughs, a jolly sound that seems inherently wrong given the circumstances. “This one can. Worry about it later. Bring me CAID.”

“Roger that,” chirps the other voice, and then the line falls silent.

“Cyngus,” Cowboy says, nodding to the foot shuffler tucked by the door. “Go give Phoenix a hand.”

The Doctor watches as the other man shuffles out of the room. Ironic, really, that a man so graceless would have the namesake of swan. That’s when the pattern hits him _Cygnus. Phoenix. Pavo. Leo._ Oh, clever, very clever. Not actual names, code names, specifically constellations.  Remembering himself, the Doctor jolts back to the moment. With the newfound confidence from his minor discovery thrumming through his veins, the Doctor sets his attentions on the man in charge, trying to gain footing and restore the power balance with a few well-placed snide comments. “Perhaps it’s time we were introduced. We’ve met the other star speckled members of your little squad. So, what should I call you, then? Hercules? Perseus?”

Cowboy tisks, “You've misjudged me, Doc. I'm not a hero, I'm a _hunter_. You can call me Orion.”

The Cowboy, correction, _Orion_ , stretches his lips, flashing a predatory grin. The Doctor rolls his eyes at the title as well as the other man’s egotistical, not to mention delusional, self-imposed sense of grandeur. “Well, _Orion_ ,” he snarks. “I’ve been around for quite a bit and there’s only one machine I’ve ever seen that back talks. So, tell me, what do you want with my TARDIS?”

“I like things that are worth money,” Orion admits and the Doctor rolls his eyes. Of course everything is about money. It always is with humans.

“And who’s Caid? He can’t be another one of your minions, the name doesn’t fit.”

“Not who, what.” The man corrects and the Doctor scoffs.

“More cheap tech you’ve stolen?”

“Our tech isn’t that cheap. You should know. It was efficient enough to keep us from being detected by you, and it shielded us so you had to land your precious ship where we wanted you to. But CAID you'll really appreciate. It stands for Cerebral Attestation Interface Device. It’s used for legal purposes, storing the memories of key witnesses, victims, criminals, you name it. Said memories act as your testimony and can be readily accessed by the jury, making it next to impossible to lie in a court of law. Makes lawyer’s jobs a whole hell of a lot easier when the jury can literally see things from their client’s perspective.”

“An awfully fancy way of saying it’s an external hard drive for memories.” Even as he mocks them, the Doctor can’t help but be mildly impressed by their methods. Syphoning memories from a hard drive in the form of raw data, saving them to a disk, and plugging it into an interface capable of translating the information and playing her most private and best kept secrets out like a home movie. If he wasn’t so repulsed by their existence, he might be inclined to shake their hands.

“Yes, Doctor,” Orion taunts. “But can you imagine it, literally seeing yourself through someone else's eyes, through a lover’s eyes, perhaps? Seeing all the things she hides and doesn’t want you to see. And, oh, there are _so_ many things. Wouldn’t you like to know what she _really_ thinks of you? Surely there’s some part of you that wishes you could dig deeper, past the deceptions and masks and filters, to feel what she feels, see what she sees, know what she knows, and not just the candy-coated things she wants you to.”

There are countless moments between them he wishes he could experience through her eyes. Not just the good, the bad. He wishes he could see all the damage she’s hidden. He wants to unravel all the lies she’s told for love of him, undo every scar she gave herself to spare him the pain. He would be a liar to say he didn’t want to see the sides of her she’s always kept hidden, and in a moment of impulsive weakness, the Doctor’s eyes flicker longingly to River.

She refuses to return his gaze, her eyes cast downward for the first time since their interrogators stepped into the room. It’s as if she can’t bear to look at him, hiding something raw and wounded that she doesn’t want him to see. It makes his chest ache from the inside out until his sternum feels like it will tear apart at the seams. Or perhaps it will shatter completely, cave in upon itself because it’s suddenly painfully empty, left desolate of her presence for far too long.

Unable to hold the weight of her silence, the Doctor’s eyes fall to his feet. It’s only when he gains the courage to look up again that he finds Orion is smirking victoriously. The curl of the man’s cheeks makes a white hot rage sizzle through the Doctor, vendetta filling the vacant space between his hearts.

The tension between them is broken by the creak of the heavy iron door as it opens, once again spilling light into the dim room. Phoenix and Cygnus reenter, bringing with them a trolley carrying peculiar looking tools and a large metallic box. Cygnus shuffles back into his place by the door, closing it behind them. But Phoenix continues towards the center of the room. He’s nothing like the Doctor expected, a weedy, short man, who looks like he has less of a backbone than an invertebrate. As he steps further into the light, it becomes clear why Orion sent someone to help him. The small, already feeble looking man is sporting a bandage on his right hand; no doubt the victim River sunk her teeth into for trying to replace her gag.

“Who's having a go this time?” he chirps like he’s wheeling in a tea trolley rather than an array of stolen goods.

“Goldilocks,” Orion instructs. “It seems she’s earned the right to have her memories back afterall.”

Phoenix hesitates, offering a good natured frown. “I can't plug _her_ in. CAID is meant to act as a storage unit, so others can observe an experience without actually fully integrating the memory. It's not designed to incorporate memories back into the brain permanently. “

"Are you unwilling to assist?" And maybe this cowboy really is a hunter in disguise because the tone of his voice says it isn't a question at all.

The other man senses this too, eyes immediately shifting away and his shoulders curling in on himself. "I'll have to jerry-rig it,” he acquiesces. “Reconfigure a few of the primary protocols. Could take a while."

"Here," Orion says, reaching into his top pocket and tossing him the Doctor’s confiscated sonic screwdriver. "This should speed things up a bit."

Phoenix examines it for a moment, wide eyed, clearly recognizing the instrument. His eyes briefly seek out the Doctor, and the Time Lord meets him with a cold, hard stare. Phoenix breaks contact first, guilt or fear or both causing him to shy away from the disgust he finds lurking in Doctor’s icy glare. The scrawny man busies himself by lifting open the lid of the metallic case and removing a control pad. A few short bursts of sonic whirring fills the air as the man adjusts the settings to his liking before setting to work. The Doctor is compelled to look away, repulsed that his own instrument of science will be used for _this._

Naturally, the Doctor’s eyes fall to River. It’s a habit and a compulsive need he’s come to rely on over the centuries, constantly seeking her reassuring presence when he finds himself lost or scared or helpless. Neither of them speak, but he can tell she's thinking, plotting. Unlike the others, her eyes aren't on the device. They are on Phoenix, studying him for soft spots and weaknesses, weighing and measuring him the same way she's done to every other man in the room. The Doctor can’t help but be captivated by the subtle, calculated shifts her eyes make, movements that go unnoticed by the others. When she’s discovered all she needs, her gaze drifts to her gun, still haphazardly discarded on the floor. Next, she looks to the door and the man who guards it, scrutinizing him with the same intensity. Finally, she looks to the ceiling, examining each and every spot light illuminating the room.

The Doctor follows her gaze, trying to decipher her plan. As far as he can tell, there’s nothing special about the bulbs, just standard issue florescent lights. At a loss, he looks away from the blinding lights, blinking away the spots that burst inside his eyes. When he regains vision, he finds River has her attention fixed on him. He takes the opportunity to question her with his eyes. But whatever it is she's plotting, her expression betrays nothing. Be it because she doesn't trust him with her plan or because she's forgotten that they can communicate a thousand thoughts with only minute facial twitches, he isn’t sure. Either way, it burns like betrayal and he's only himself to blame.

The abrasive shrieking of the sonic ceases, silence once again reclaiming the room as Phoenix surveys his handiwork with a pleased little smile. Setting aside the control panel, he reaches into the metallic container, removing a silicone helmet the Doctor can only assume is CAID. It’s grey and flexible and speckled with a trail of wires that lead back to the control panel.

“Observing a memory isn't the same process as reintegrating one,” Phoenix explains, taking the helmet with him as he comes to stand beside River. “It will be painful.”  _A_ _nd dangerous._

The second description goes unsaid, but it hangs in the room like a noose, leaving Phoenix looking nervous as he gingerly molds the device to River’s head. He fumbles slightly, hindered by his bandaged hand. But once the helmet is adjusted correctly, he sweeps River’s hair to the side, exposing her neck. What looks like a barb protrudes from the underside of the rubbery cap, and with a reluctant sigh, Phoenix grips the silicone and presses it into the flesh at the base of her skull. He looks apologetic, like he cares that this will cause her pain. Sympathy doesn’t seem to be a trait these other men possess. He certainly doesn’t fit in with the others and the Doctor briefly wonders how a man of science and compassion fell in with a crew such as this.

The process of hooking River into the helmet continues, tiny, needle like barbs placed strategically around her scalp and temples, hairline fractures penetrating her flesh and bone, burrowing into her brain tissue. With every new puncture, River winces but makes no audible noise. When he’s completed his task, Phoenix steps back, taking the Neural-Relay disk from Orion and inserting it into the control panel. There’s a hum of electrodes and the gel helmet buzzes to life, rippling with warm colors, highlighting relevant areas of her brain where the downloaded memories should be stored.

River’s eyes widen, made impossibly more alert by the sudden current pumping through her cortex. She blinks hard, fighting the way her eyes threaten to glass over, her conscious mind lured by the electric tingling in the back of her brain. The device has drawn attention to all the memories she is without, little nooks and crannies of her brain now ripe with that niggling sensation one gets when they’ve forgotten why they entered a room or lost their train of thought mid-sentence. It’s all too familiar how _she is both focused and distant, bound to an iron throne, wired to a device that could spell her doom, a crown of barbs digging into her skin. “Stop this now! This is going to kill you!"_

And here he is again, watching her take all the risk. "River, don’t," he croaks, but his pleas go unheeded. Is this what it feels like? To be helpless, surrounded by shadows filled with danger, to look in the eyes of your love and have them not know you?

“Now, none of that Doctor,” Orion interjects. “Don’t you think it’s about time you let the lady find her own information and make her own decisions? You can't control her anymore.”

 “I’m not ordering you,” the Doctor protests. “I’m begging you. River, _please_. You don't have to do this. It probably won’t even work, and worse, it’s dangerous.” He can’t lose her again. He refuses. “There has to be a better way. There’s always a way out.”

“Yes,” she sighs, final, resolute. “And I found it.”

“Scar tissue, that’s what Casia called the blocks in your brain,” the Doctor blurts, voice hinging on desperation. “Your synapses could be burnt out, possibly dead. Even if this machine somehow manages to not fry your brain, you might not even be capable of retaining the information anymore. This could be a needless risk!”

“Stay out of this, Doctor!” River barks, silencing him with a dangerous glare. “You've made enough decisions for me lately.”

Orion breaks the heated moment by stepping between them, his muscular form looming over River. “Before we begin I’d like to remind you that if you have any delusions of trying to lie or escape, I’ll put a bullet in your head. I know you're rather good at contingency plans, but just know that I'm not like the others. I don't play games and I don’t give second chances. Cross me and it'll be the last thing you do."

River meets his stare with fierce eyes, but her tone speaks of understanding, his message received loud and clear as she answers, “Wouldn't dream of it.”

“You should know that promise goes both ways,” the Doctor’s voice growls out of this throat, a threat born from somewhere dark and secret and bubbling with rage. “I don’t give second chances either.”

Orion meets the Doctor’s eyes for a fraction of a moment before smirking. "What is it you're always saying?” he asks, sauntering his way back towards Phoenix and the control pad. “Ah, that's right,” his smirk stretches into a grin. "Geronimo."

The man’s finger falls determinedly, activating the machine. The Doctor’s pleading eyes seek out River, trying to fight the inevitable even as the machine begins to whir to life. River’s eyes find his, the vulnerability he finds there lasting only a moment before she looks away, refusing or unable to hold his gaze.

Warm toned lights flicker and dance across the silicone cap as the machine attempts to restore her memories back to their rightful locations. The clenching of her fists and the tightening of her jaw are her only outward signs of struggle. Nothing imperative, no crippling pain, and the Doctor thinks that maybe this will work, maybe this is the key to getting her back.

However, the data on the tablet remains constant, unaffected by their efforts, and Orion frowns to see it. "More power,” he demands and Phoenix hesitates, only to be met with Orion’s unblinking stare. "I said _more power_."

With reluctance, Phoenix taps his fingers against the tablet, increasing the device’s intensity. The change is made evident by River almost instantly, her eyes flying wide and lungs gasping in a strangled breath. Her increased heart rate makes the purple, vine like veins adorning her chest and arm throb angrily. They pulse just beneath her skin, the now rapid rise and fall of her chest swaying in rhythm to the changing colors of her helmet. The spectrum of lights on the device shifts from reds to greens to warm yellows and icy blues. Erratic. Intense. The hitch of her breath is a warning, the flutter of her eyes an omen that causes a whisper of fear to chill the back of the Doctor’s neck.

It’s not until the first drop of crimson drips from her nose that his insides erupt into full blown panic. This isn't good. This is what happened before. She’s been getting headaches because her brain is trying to remember, trying to forge a connection that couldn't be made because there physically were no memories there to find. At Jim’s, Casia had tried to forcibly uncover a memory, to break through a barrier of faulty synapses to reach information that was no longer present. The pyramids affected her the same way, the high energy atmosphere running rampant on her fractured mind, tugging on timelines and a past she couldn’t remember. And again, at the caves, even his regeneration energy had tried to heal her damaged synapses, but it couldn’t without first replacing what was lost.

But why is she bleeding this time? If the machine is replacing the memories as it should, in theory her brain should be able to access them now. Unless... Casia had been right all along and it’s too late. River’s synapses connected to memories of him could be burnt out, dead. And that would mean that trying to re-forge the connection could fry her brain completely. If the trauma of this doesn’t kill her first, the sudden influx of information could over load her brain entirely, burn her up again. But this time there’s no mainframe to save her.

“Stop! You’re going to kill her! The gaps in her mind aren’t just pot holes you can thoughtlessly pour into and expect everything to be fine! They are open wounds! Fragile and easily damaged! The synapses could already be scar tissue, scabbed over and unable to fire. And if you keep forcing it, you’re going to kill her!"

Orion remains undisturbed by the declaration, but Phoenix’s face pales, eyes darting to River and then the control panel in his hands. 

“If something happens to her,” the Doctor tries again. “If she is harmed in any way, you’ll have me to answer to. If you know me, you know what I’m capable of. I won’t just let you get away with this.”

But it seems his threats have come too late because the machine suddenly sparks, shorting out as the pulsing neon colors fade back to grey. River relaxes, her whole body giving a sigh of relief. She’s still panting, eyes shutting tight, shying away from light and flinching at sounds like she’s experiencing the worst migraine of her life. When she finally remembers herself, she bends her head to wipe her nose against her shoulder, leaving a trail of ruby red to stain the fabric of her shirt. Never before has the Doctor seen her so exhausted, so pale and bruised, so scarred and painted, purple tendrils spiraling up her arm and a hint of scarlet still smearing her top lip. Never has she sounded so derelict of hope than when her voice cracks over the words, “I can’t… I can’t remember. Nothing’s changed.”

“Is she lying?” Orion asks, voice flat and completely void of emotion for the first time.

Phoenix shakes his head. “Afraid not. The files from the disk are empty. It’s registering that her memories have been returned, but it’s not detecting any response patterns from her synapses.”

The omission hits the Doctor with the force of every punch he’s ever felt, the realization as terrifying as every nightmare he’s ever had coming back to haunt him all at once. The gaps in her mind were indeed open wounds and the surrounding tissues is already scabbed over and turned to scar tissue, unusable. Even now that her memories fill the gaping holes, the surrounding tissue is still too damaged. She can never access them. She can never remember him. He’s too late.

He feels River’s eyes on him before he sees them, the weight of her stare summoning him like the moon to the night sky. She is panting, still catching her breath from the mental exertion. Her pupils have dilated, blown wider than they should be in this bright room. It makes her brow pinch, retinas still sensitive to the light. What green he can detect still sparkles like the sea, vast and glossy and forever gazing back at him like he is a stranger standing upon a shore that her waves will never quite reach.

“Well, Professor Song,” Orion sighs. “I do believe you’ve officially exhausted your use to us.”

Another, even more terrifying implication sinks in at the man’s words and the Doctor rips his eyes from River’s, gaping as a newfound sickness suddenly swirls in his gut. “Just like that? You're just going to dispose of her?”

“You said we needed her genetics to access the memories, but if her brain is too fried to be conductive, then she’s of no use to us. Her value has expired. Luckily, we have you now. So, back to Plan B. Your name?”

“You don't understand what you're asking. This isn't some trinket you can sell off to the highest bidder. This could unravel the universe, destroy everything.”

“Very poetic, Doctor,” the other man jeers. “But that's not what I asked. Your name or she dies.”

“You're making a big mistake. You’re toying with things you don't understand!”

“Is that a no? Sounds an awful lot like a no.”

“You got your hands on some Time Agent gear and you think you know how time works. Well, guess what, you don't, and giving you my name would mean signing the death certificate of time itself.”

“Last chance,” Orion offers, eyes on the Doctor as he casually takes out his own weapon, lazily aiming it at River’s chest.

“Just listen, for one second of your lives, just this once, _think_ about the implications of what you’re doing. What you’re asking for is bigger than all of you. Do you think your tiny minds could even comprehend it if you knew it? That you could pronounce it with your pitiful _human_ -“ the Doctor spits the word human like it’s a curse, but the rest of his rant is swallowed by the sound of a gun. 

Time falls apart in a moment, or at least it feels like it does. It slips into slow motion. The barrel of the blaster is still smoking. Crimson stains River’s top, pooling across her chest, warm, red liquid filling the place between her hearts where he used to rest his head. Everything is slower, even his rapidly palpitating hearts have reduced to a mere tremble, his gasping, panicked lungs hardly remembering their need to breathe. But time stops completely when his eyes finally lock with hers and-

_She looks shocked and pained as Rory does his best to stop the bleeding. Here in Hitler’s office, she is dying right in front of him, this girl he only just met, the one Amy and Rory never spoke about. Idly, he wonders why. Demanding and trigger happy, she seems like a hell of a woman. In these final moments she is brave and content, a smile tugging at her lips like they poses a secret she plans to take to her grave._

_"When I was little," Mels says, breathless, her fading eyes fixed on him. "I was going to marry you."_

_The Doctor smiles at that, always quick to bargain away the inevitable. "Good idea. Let's get married. Stay alive and I'll marry you. Deal?"_

“What have you done?” he means to scream, but the words fall out as a whisper. His breath has caught in his chest but all of hers seems to have been expelled from her lungs. Her shimmering eyes look more vibrant and green than he’s ever seen, but the light in them is already dimming, the tension in her limbs going limp.

"I told you. I'm a man of my word.” The other man’s words are muted, distorted in the Doctor’s ears. All the Time Lord can focus on is River and the way no sound leaves her parted lips. The pool of red spreads across her chest like a plague and a wrath of biblical proportions swells up from some secret, ancient place within him.

"Help her,” he chokes. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll help her!” She’s bleeding out. The blast must have caused enough damage to send one of her hearts into shock because her blood pressure is dropping. She’s slipping into unconsciousness, fading fast, and someone has to do something before she… before she… “Help her! Just help her now or I swear I'll-"

 "You'll what?" Orion snaps, derogatory and taunting, and the Doctor desperately fixes his eyes on River, watching helplessly as she slumps forward. His chest heaves, fists clenching as he tugs against his bindings. He needs to get to her, hold her, help her, _save_ her. But bound to this chair, there’s nothing he can do.

River’s breathing is becoming more strained, ragged inhales followed by shaky exhales. The rise and fall of her chest is slowing, slowing, the light in her eyes dimming. There's nothing he can do. Handcuffed, again. Helpless as she dies in front of him. _Again_. It seems like she's always the one who suffers. How many times has he watched her try and offer herself in his place, all the while knowing she would one day succeed? And now the impossible has happened and he’s having to watch her die for him a second time. She may be the assassin, but he's always been far better at killing her than she ever was at killing him.

“Hang on, River. Everything’s going to be fine,” he whispers the lie all grown-ups tell when they know things won’t be alright.

River says nothing. She doesn’t have the strength. But the gleam in her eyes says she knows as she huffs out a shaky sound. It’s fragile, an echo of what might have been a laugh if she had any breath left to spare.

A Gallifreyan word springs to his mind, one that means birth and death and goodbye old friend and hello familiar stranger. It's bittersweet and it's too big and too complex and too powerful to translate to human language. He isn't even sure it applies because use of the word means that whatever you're losing will also come back to you. He doesn't think that she will, so he says the next best thing his tongue can form.

“I love you,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for his own ears. She has no reason to believe him, but he hopes that, deep down, some part of her does.

Her lips waver, the tremors of what could have been a smile, just once more, for him, before her eyes flutter shut and her body sags forward.

_“Doctor, you and your secrets. You’ll be the death of me.”_


	20. Fire and Ice and Rage

“The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love.” –Euripides

* * *

 

_The cemetery is cold and damp. But it’s nothing compared to the shiver he feels as ice jolts through his veins, something cold and hard piercing into his hearts, crystallizing around the muscle and cutting it off from the rest of his body. It’s as if it is no longer a part of him, as if Amelia took it with her when she vanished, leaving in its place only the image of her glassy eyes, rosy cheeks, and pale, tear stained face._

_His own watery eyes are still fixed on the Angel when he feels River’s hand rest on his shoulder. The Doctor flinches at the touch, shaking her off like she’s contagious. All her patience and empathy and understanding are vibrating off her, eating at his flesh. Usually River’s presence is a balm. It soothes and it heals, but at this moment, it’s not a cure he seeks. It’s the affliction. He wants to feed the itch in his skin. The need for revenge ravages him like a disease and he finds himself relenting to it, wanting nothing but to destroy. The desire churns and bubbles and swells until his back is straightening, shoulders stiffening, and chest bursting with hot, angry breaths. The tears tracking down his cheeks sizzle against his burning skin, the blackest type of rage so very, very close to the surface._

_Beside him, River’s arm falls back to her side. “Come on,” she whispers, softly, brokenly. “She’s gone now, Doctor. Amy’s gone now.”_

_And, oh, how he hates to hear it. The confirmation makes something inside him snap, the last of his control evaporating the same way Amelia had when she-_

_“What about me?” the Doctor barks, something wild in his eyes as he stalks his way towards the Angel. “Gonna take me now?”_

_“It’s weak,” River tells him. She’s only a few feet behind him but she might as well be miles. “I think it’s done for now.”_

_The Doctor works his jaw, choosing his words the way a jury passes judgement. When he finally speaks it’s with the finality of a judge’s verdict, his words as sharp as an executioners axe. “Tell your friends. Tell all the Angels. Next time I see you, I will grind you into sand. I will make a desert of you!”_

_“Doctor, stop it!”_

_“NO!”_ _he shouts so loud the air around them ripples with the aftershock. There is nothing to absorb his words but grass and gravel and graves. There's an emptiness to the air, something hollow and lifeless that betrays the ground beneath their feet. The soil he stands on is thick with caskets and bones, with satin and corpses. It is ripe with death and loss and all that's left of his precious Amelia Pond._

_"Do statues feel fear?" the Doctor wonders aloud, his voice a whisper as he leans in closer to stare into the cold, grey eyes of the creature before him. "Because you should."_

_Oh and they will, before he's done with them he'll make sure of it. He will purge the universe of them, reduce them to rocks and rubble. He will turn them to pebbles and dust and when he is through he will wonder no longer what it sounds like to hear stones scream._

_“Sweetie, we need to leave.” River’s voice floats to him but he can hardly make out her words over the pounding in his ears. “Doctor, please,” she tries again, her soft, tentative hand reaching out to find his shoulder once more._

_The Doctor spins to look at her, ready to shout and scream until his voice cracks and his chest is empty, until his insides are no longer filled with anger and sadness and regret. Instead, he finds his breath stolen by the sight of her. Tears are swelling behind her eyes, threatening to spill over, but they remain fixed on the Angel, green and shimmering and determined. She is unwavering in her stare, as hard as granite. But she is porcelain, too, delicate and precious. She is fierce and protective, allowing him his tantrum as she refuses to blink. Oh, but underneath it all she is so very tender, with her shivering chest and her lips that try not to tremble. Melody Pond, the woman twice orphaned, is reaching out to him because she’s the only one who can stop him and he’s the only one she has left._

_Suddenly, the weight of her hand is like breathing fresh air. It calms him, centers him, tethers him to something other than blind hatred. If she can be calm after losing her parents and friends, then so can he. He takes a steadying breath, admiring her. But he must stare in awe of her for too long because what happens next is instinct and habit, her determination betrayed by her body’s natural reaction. Eyes filled to the brim and unable to hold any more, she blinks, a single tear spilling and rolling down the swell of her cheek._

_It's only a nano second, but the Doctor’s hearts skip because he’s close, too close to the Angel, and a second is all it takes. Eyes that had been fixed on River now quickly snap back to the creature. But when he turns, the Angel is gone. It ran. It had the chance to take him and it ran. It had the meal of a lifetime at its feet and yet it chose to run. Maybe River’s right, maybe it’s weakened. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s smart enough to be scared._

_When he turns back to River, she’s watching him, her eyes dancing with more emotions than he can count. They glisten with sorrow and grief and words that will never be heard, goodbyes that can never be said. The lines etched into her face are soft ones, weary and repentant. Forgiveness and apologies cascade out of her in unison. They harmonize, understanding and remorse forming a tune the both of them have long since learned to live by._

_Something else is humming out of her, too, something shaky and foreign and out of sync. The look she’s giving him resonates deep in his core, unearthing the same gut wrenching feeling he’d had when he discovered her broken wrist. Its fear, he realizes. She’s afraid of him, of what he might do, of the terrible words his tongue likes to lash when the pain in his hearts becomes too much._

_His River is afraid of him and for him and yet she stands her ground, ready to bear it all. Something inside him breaks, defenses cracking like a dam as all his anger floods out of him in one ragged breath. River swoops in, cradling him to her like the delicate creature he is. Her arms are solid as they fold around him, her fingers sure as they stroke through his hair. She keeps him standing and he isn’t sure how she does it, how she finds the will to carry them both and the patience to accept what she can’t control. How is she strong enough to bear the weight of both their consciences? How is she wise enough to show mercy to the beings that stole the ones she held most dear?_

_She had been tranquil where he was rabid, her words reassuring where his were pleading. She stood tall and solid where he was helpless but to fracture and fall apart. His threats hadn’t been empty or idle ones. They were fueled by fear and fury and he’d meant every word. Without River here, he fears the depths his wrath could sink to and the atrocities he would have committed without her guiding hand to stop him._

 

He hasn’t taken his eyes off her. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He refuses. His eyes burn with the need to blink, but how can he remove her from his sight for even a moment? What if she slips away? What if her body fades from existence? What if all along she’s been a figment of his imagination and she never even existed at all?

What if she’s gone?

Truly, permanently, gone. What if there’s no saving her this time?

Her hair hangs over her eyes like a curtain, a veil, the kind she didn’t get to wear on their wedding day. The golden curls he loves so much shield her like an obstacle that can’t be breached. He wants to push them aside. He wants to see her eyes. He _needs_ to see her eyes, to know that they’re still green and vibrant. He needs to know they’ll open again, that this isn’t the last time he’ll see her, that she didn’t die angry with him. He needs to know that she knew she was loved.

But her eyes remain shut and it’s all he can do not to come apart at the seams.

His insides ache with the weight of a romance twisted by time and cut short by causality. A love that was bent by circumstance but never broken, condemned from the start but full of more joy and purity than any divine creation. It was strong as iron and untarnished as gold.

It’s a force so powerful it can only be matched by suffocating anger, the kind that curls around its victims like the blackened edges of singed paper.

He can’t fix this and it chokes him. No paradoxes that could sustain it. No loopholes or long shot schemes to rely on. Finality is all there is. History is written in stone. Nothing remains in his arsenal except desperation. But a man deprived of hope can be the most dangerous weapon of all.

The sounds of the room feel distant, far away, unreal. But when Orion speaks, the Doctor suddenly, viciously, finds himself snapping back to the present. “I was hoping she'd live long enough for you to hear her beg you to tell us,” he offers, casually dusting off the blackened barrel of his blaster. “As it turns out, she wasn’t the begging type. She didn’t even try to bargain for your safety. What were her words? ‘ _Feel free to beat it out of him for a change’_?” The man huffs out a laugh. “I certainly didn’t see that coming. And judging by your stunned silence, I’m guessing you didn’t either. Women, aye? Can’t trust ‘em. I guess the look of broken despair on your face will just have to be satisfaction enough.”

The air from River’s last breath still hangs in the room. The sound of her voice is still fresh in his ears. Her lifeless body hasn’t even had the time to grow cold and yet this man stands before her, taunting her, mocking her. She’s dead and yet the man who killed her still breathes, poisoning the air with every snide remark that exhales from his mouth.

“You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your lives.” The Doctor’s voice is quiet, too quiet. His throat croaks under the weight of words, every syllable sending tremors coursing through his chest. His tongue licks at his chapped lips but it’s no use. His mouth has gone dry, every fiber in his being suddenly left wanting.

 “Thanks for the concern,” the other man chuckles. “But I’m sure we’ll manage just fine without her. Now-“

“I don’t mean because she was the key to getting what you want,” the Doctor cuts in, and this time his voice doesn’t tremble at all. It’s as steady as the turn of time and every ounce as ancient and foreboding.  “I mean because her compassion was the only thing going to keep you alive _when_ I get out of here. Now that you’ve taken her out of the equation, well, who knows what I’ll be capable of?”

“Oh please,” Orion snorts. “You’re a pacifist, known throughout the universe as the man who refuses to take another’s life.”

The Doctor’s eyes finally break from River, his mouth curling into something far too wicked to ever be labeled a smile. His lips are pulled taut, only flashing the barest hint of teeth. It isn’t the grin of a hunter or a predator. It’s the smirk of a goblin or an imp, something ancient and powerful and treacherous. “I don’t have to kill you to make you suffer.” The threat lingers in the air, his voice dark and dangerous and bubbling with a twisted sense of pleasure. “There's a reason they call me all those terrible things. _The Beast, The Valeyard. The Oncoming Storm._ The stories about me aren’t just stories, they’re true. And that woman there, the one you thought was so expendable, she knew that better than anyone. She knew what I was capable of and she knew how to keep me from it. My companions keep me human. They teach me compassion. But that woman… River reminded me of my darkness. She didn’t keep my demons at bay. She held them tight, showed them to me, never letting me forget. She exposed my darkness, constantly reminding me, not this, never this. She made me better because she was the only one who could. She was the only one who understood.”

His voice nearly breaks at the admission, his hazel eyes seeking solace in the only home he knows. But there is no reprieve to be found from gazing at her now. There is only pain, anguish that makes his chest tight and his heavy hearts struggle to remember why they even beat at all. What is their purpose if River can no longer find comfort in the cadence of his double pulse? Why beat when no one will miss their rhythm? What is the point of them without their bespoke counterpart?

“She was like holding smoke,” he confesses, softer than he means to before his jaw sets, eyes hardening as they once again bore into his captors. “Every time she left the room felt like losing her because I was never sure if it was the last. Which means I’ve lost her more times than I can count. For centuries I’ve seen her die every time I close my eyes and if you think for one second I’m strong enough to survive it again, you are mistaken. You wanted me desperate, well, here it is. And now you need to be very _very_ afraid because you took my hope away. All the things I've done, imagine what I'll do to you. You thought I was bargaining for her life, but you’re wrong. I was bargaining for yours.”

The soft buzzing of the lights is the only audible sound in the room. The other men are too stunned or enraptured or terrified to move or speak or breathe. The Doctor’s gaze bores into them all, even the ones he knows are lurking in the shadows. He stares into them until he feels their insides shudder, feeding on their healthy slash of fear like a deity hungry for sacrifice. Only once he’s certain he has their attention, once his message has burrowed its way beneath their skin and taken residence in their bones, does he choose to continue.

“You have nothing left to threaten me with, but I do. You think erasing you from history is the worst I can do? By the time I’m done with you, you'll be praying I threw you into a black hole. You’ll wish I’d been merciful enough to atomize you and spread your insignificant cells so far across the cosmos the universe would forget to miss you.”

The Doctor’s chest heaves with every breath, every declaration, every warning and promise of pain. The tension in his body pulls tighter and tighter. His words slip out like the hissing of a snake, threatening and every bit as venomous. He finds his voice beginning to ascend, heaving chest heavy with the weight of unearthing every dark urge he usually keeps carefully buried beneath the guise of jolly youth.

Intimate knowledge of all the places his companions will never see, places where nightmares dwell and his sane mind would avoid and forget, spring to the surface. He knows the deadliest corners of the universe as thoroughly as he knows the darkness within himself. He hoards them. Toxins tucked away like secrets and locked away behind closed doors, coordinates for the most gruesome locations in the cosmos lying dormant in the darkest recesses of his mind.

“I have all of space and time as my playground, and I know of the deepest, darkest places in the universe. Places that make mortals like you scream. Places born of evil so pure it will make your nightmares afraid. I could take you to the very end of the universe, the edge of everything. No time. No light. No sound. Nothing but empty blackness and the fossils of civilization. Where there will be no one to hear you scream and not even the shadows will mourn you.”

The Doctor pauses for breath, sucking in air, fueling his purpose with the uneasy atmosphere the way a wraith sucks life from its victims. In the brief respite, Orion makes to speak but the Doctor is faster, silencing him with the lash of his tongue because once he's started there's no stopping him now. They will learn the hard way what it means to receive his wrath. The lesson will be swift but his message will linger. He will make martyrs of them until his dictum echoes throughout infinity and no soul shall ever dare to tread the path these men have walked upon.

“I could abandon you to places riddled with monsters or demons or flesh eating bacteria. I could leave you on planets of nothing but forsaken sand, with deserts so barren even the ground is hungry, sucking down its prey to slowly decompose its victims. On the moons of Tartarus, the atmosphere is toxic, inducing fever dreams where your greatest fears come to life. But the air is also full of micro antigens capable of prolonging a human’s life span indefinitely. I could give you a fate worse than death.  I could make you live forever in your own personal hell.”

A silence heavier and thicker than smog settles over the room. His words fill the darkened corners, consonants and vowels mingling with the dust that swirls in the dim lighting. But the unearthly calm is soon broken by Orion. A small puff of air escapes the man’s lips, audacity and disbelief and the faintest hint of amusement. A cruel smile starts to curl Orion’s cheek, his shoulders jostling as one huff of laughter turns into another and another until the man is outright laughing at the Doctor’s malicious promises.

“That _is_ good,” Orion chuckles, his joviality slicing through the air and into the Doctor’s bones. “Very intimidating. Look at me, I've got chills. I’d always heard you were good at speeches. But they really are _much_ better in person. Truly, I am blessed to witness it. Nevertheless, you’re wrong, because we still have plenty of ways to threaten you.”

Orion lifts a hand, the sound of his snapping fingers reverberating throughout the room. Phoenix is the first to jump to attention, stepping towards River’s body.

“Don’t you dare touch her!’ The Doctor snarls, and Phoenix flinches like he’s been struck.

The scrawny man’s eyes ping pong between the Doctor’s cold stare and Orion’s expectant smile. “The, uh, her, um-“ the man stutters, skittishly watching the Doctor. “I need to remove the helmet.”

Phoenix turns back to his work, and though the Doctor no longer protests, his eyes follow Phoenix’s movements like a hawk. He is precise and efficient in his task, sonicing around the edges of the cap until it relinquishes its hold on River’s flesh. She does not stir, her head still lolled forward, hair obscuring her face. Her fingers do not flex or flinch as the mechanism disengages. She does not hiss in pain or sigh in relief; and for the Doctor, there has never been a scream so loud as that of his soul when faced with her deathly silence.

The other man is gentle in his movements, almost tender as his fingers curl around the silicone, careful to avoid disturbing her body or tangling in her hair as he removes the head gear. The Doctor is grateful to see her rid of the apparatus, to see her as she was and is and should be, to see the full extent of her wild hair freed from its confines, enigmatic as ever and on display for all to admire.

To her side, Phoenix sees to locking the helmet back in its metal container, hiding it from view. It isn’t a device the Doctor has seen before, which means it mustn’t make a huge impact on history. He decides then and there that he’ll burn the whole lot of them, destroy every factory, abolish every museum relic, and hunt down every single one that might be locked away in a collector’s vaults. It’s a fruitless act of violence, but he thinks she’d approve. River had always hated hats.

Phoenix makes his way back over to River, carefully setting his attentions to the bindings at her feet. Whatever his intentions, he doesn’t seem hurried. He takes his time, unweaving the restraints with as much care and finesse as one would when deactivating a bomb. The Doctor observes him curiously, uncertain if the man’s actions are the result of genuine human decency or induced by fear of the Time Lord’s watchful eyes. If he’s honest, he doesn’t rightly care. Every ounce of the Doctor’s body screams, his eyes watching Phoenix like he wants to make the other man burst into flames just for daring to touch River’s skin.

Whatever he’s playing at, he must be taking too long because Orion impatiently snaps his fingers again. This time, Pavo steps into view, making to join Phoenix in undoing her bindings.

“No!” The Doctor shouts, his order cracking at the air like a whip. “Not you! Do not lay a finger on her!”

At the Doctor’s command, Pavo turns to face him, flashing a wicked smirk. The corners of his cheeks still pulled taut, the man changes course, bypassing her restrains to reach around the back of River’s chair.

 “Whatever you say, Doc,” the man taunts, watching the Doctor with a sickening sense of satisfaction as he flips a hidden switch.

The restraints holding River to the chair disengage at once. No longer supported, her lifeless body shifts, slumping forward from the force of its own weight. The Doctor jolts as if he means to catch her, only to be hindered by his own bindings. Luckily, Phoenix is still at her feet and the slender man’s arms are quick to catch her body as it tumbles forward. The force of the impact sends them both careening to the floor, Phoenix letting out a sharp yelp of surprise in the process. The man’s wiry arms aren’t good for much, but he does the best he can to gently ease River’s body onto the cement floor beside him.

The other men in the room laugh uproariously, but Phoenix merely looks flustered as he scrambles to his feet, leaving River where she lies as he slowly recedes back into the shadows. He left her there on display, abandoned her in the middle of the room. She’s lying on her side, almost curled in on herself with her face half buried in the crook of her arm. Her lips are slightly parted, all the words she left unsaid still clinging to the rosy flesh. The dim, florescent lighting delights in her untamed hair, highlighting the auburn tint to her curls. With lidded eyes and limp limbs, he’s never seen her so still, not even when she was asleep. She almost looks peaceful.

An emotion he can't explain makes its way to the forefront of his mind, something somber and eternal and drenched in the bitterest kind of hope. It's a word, a shifting, elusive term that dances behind his eyes. A jumble of vowels and consonants that speak to his soul, that open old wounds and remind his battered hearts of things they'd rather forget. 

_She’s frighteningly angelic when she wants to be. She’s a chameleon, his wife, flashing those big, green eyes and batting her lashes like she’s the most innocent creature in the world._

_“River,” he scolds, trying to maintain a stern expression even as she coyly sips at her tea. “You can't just make up words."_

_She places her cup down with a soft thud, her voice a familiar concoction of patient and smug. “Just because you don’t speak the language doesn’t mean I made it up.”_

_“I’m the Doctor,” he scoffs, gracelessly bumping the table as he folds his ankle over his knee. “I speak everything.”_

_“Maybe,” River merely arches an elegant brow in challenge, straightening her tiles on the Scrabble board. “When the TARDIS feels like translating it for you.”_

_His eyes narrow in response, but hers merely twinkle with knowing as she reaches for her tea to take another victory sip. As if she’s cleverer than him just because she speaks hundreds of languages **all** the time. He can’t help it if his brain is full of other things, important things like bi plane lessons and how to knit intricate scarves and the precise temperature with which to scramble the perfect egg. _

_Honestly, he’s not sure why he plays these silly Earth games with River anyway. She doesn’t even let him use the word generator app on his sonic, which is more than unfair. He dares say it’s cheating. Probably. What year was Scrabble even invented? Maybe he’ll pop back and see what he can do about spicing up the rules of this rubbish game._

_Across the table, River clears her throat, waiting. The Doctor takes one glance down at his own useless tiles and opts to argue rather than accept another merciless defeat._

_“Well, Professor Smarty Pants,” he sing songs, leaning forward. “What does Sa.. Sau.. Saud,” he attempts to pronounce it, his tongue stuttering over the foreign word before finally huffing. “What language is your silly word anyway?”_

_River rolls her eyes fondly. “It’s pronounced, Saudade, and it’s Portuguese.”_

_“And what does it mean?”_

_She blanches at that, eyes diverting quickly to the tiles like she’s nervous to answer the question. “It means,” she starts and he swears her voice nearly cracks. “It means a nostalgic longing to be near something that is distant, someone that has been loved and then lost.” Her eyes flash up to his and when she finds him listening intently, they immediately dart away, unable to hold his gaze. There’s a shyness in her voice, hesitance that comes before the parting of a secret. “It is described as the love that stays long after the recipient is gone. Often it carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never really return.”_

_For River, it's more than a definition. It's a confession, evidence of her intimate understanding of the word as tangible and solid as the letters splayed out on the board before them. But for the Doctor, it's epiphany. It's realization that he now has a name to put to the feeling River always instills within him. It's finally putting voice to aching and longing for things that can never be replaced, to missing something right in front of you because it was lost long before it was ever truly found._

_A few unruly curls slip from behind her ear. She doesn’t push them back, instead using them as a shield to hide her face. Even though she keeps her attention fixed on the tiles, the Doctor doesn’t miss the way something genuine and pure plays across her profile, something meaningful and real and miles away from the show of fluttering lashes he’d seen only moments ago. He’s looking at the real River now, quiet and still and vulnerable._

She lies only a few feet away, in death as she was in life, always just out of reach. His muscles twitch, conflicted by the need to be near her and the knowledge that no matter how hard he tries, he cannot keep hold of ghost. 

“You’re probably wondering why we moved her body,” Orion states, his voice a faraway echo, a remnant of a reality that no longer matters. “Before you ask, no, it’s not so you don’t have to look at it. We’ll need that seat for the next guest we procure.” The faux pleasantries slide from the man’s face like they never existed at all, replaced instead by a humorless, knowing glare. “You see, you've made a lot of friends over the years, Doctor. Donna Noble. Martha Jones. Sarah Jane, and oh, doesn’t she have a son now? And let’s not forget Miss Clara Oswald. I have plenty of disciples to choose from. So here’s what’s going to happen: we’re going to get another guest in here, and then another, and then another. As many as it takes until we find someone you love enough to not let die. Now, do we need to go find another guest or are you ready to talk?”

The Doctor says nothing, remaining stubbornly silent in the face of defeat. It’s what River would have wanted.

Beside him, Orion gives an exaggerated sigh. “You’re still looking at this all wrong, Doctor. And until you adjust your perspective, we’re never going to get anywhere. There’s nothing to be gained from your silence except a growing pile of corpses. And let’s be honest, haven’t you let enough innocent people die for you already?”

The hubris is palpable in the other man’s tone and it makes the Doctor’s skin crawl. It's an ancient, patient kind of fury that boils inside of him, one that stems from centuries upon centuries of loss and repression. That burns with the fire of every person he's ever left behind and every selfless soul he let get lost along the way. It’s a rage that’s grown heavy with things he cannot change, with fate he couldn’t escape and days that couldn’t be rewritten. It scorches him from the inside out, a star on the brink of supernova. It builds until he feels he will burst from anger and helplessness.

He trembles like an Old Testament God promising fire and brimstone. He refuses to let anyone else die, to give in, to let River’s death be in vain. But how will he fight this? How will he talk his way out if his words fall on deaf ears? With what will he bargain if his enemies won’t see reason?

It’s moments like this when he needs River the most. She would know what to do, what to say, where to turn. She always had a back up plan, always knew what would happen next. She always had a way out.

His desire for wrath has never been greater, his desperation never more manic. The air around him crackles with it, static emanating off him and around him in an invisible current. The Doctor pictures it crawling across his skin, an electric pull making his hairs stand on end. He imagines it as a fluid thing, a live wire biting at the air.

Except, it’s not imagined at all.

And it isn’t the crescendo of wrath he feels swelling all around him; it’s hope. The air _is_ buzzing. He can taste it on his tongue. He feels it tickling his skin. It tingles all around him, and for a moment, he swears that old, familiar rush of golden energy is blossoming in his veins. But that can’t be. It’s not possible. He doesn’t have enough left for that. Neither of them do.

_"After what you did in Berlin… what you gave up… you wouldn’t have enough energy to-“_

_"But some?” River interjects, and the Doctor frowns._

_“Not enough.”_

Contrary to reason, his Time Lord senses hum with the fresh smell of time and life and years waiting to be lived. It tastes ancient and brand new. It feels like a miracle.

River is still on her side, facing downward when the faintest bit of light starts to glow. It’s just a mist, an almost translucent sparkle on her skin, a shimmering cloud of gold engulfing her wound, weaving and flowing around her chest like water through a canyon.

The Doctor fights the urge to gape, to cheer, to burst at the seams from the blissful relief swelling in every fiber of his being. She’s doing it. His River is doing the impossible. Somehow, he manages to keep his unbridled joy at bay, focusing instead on keeping his jaw tight and his eyes fierce.

“You're right,” the Doctor blurts, his voice commanding the attention of every man in the room. All eyes fixed decidedly on him, the Doctor concedes defeat. “There's nothing I can do. You've beaten me and it's my own fault. I tried to do this alone. Sure, you stole River’s memories from her, but I'm the one who lied, who kept things from her.  I thought I could fix it and make her love me all over again. But I failed to earn her trust and that was wrong. _I_ was wrong. I shouldn't have done that. Because good or bad our past is ours and I shouldn't have tried to keep it from her. But you know what? You shouldn't have given it back to her. So congratulations. You've beaten me. But before you break out the champagne, I have just one question: How much researcher did you do on her? How far back? You know she had training. You know that she married me. But you also know that she killed me. Twice, I might add. She’s really not the type of woman you want to scorn. So what do you think she'll do to you?” He pins Orion with his eyes, voice dropping low, the barest hint of pride tugging at his cheeks. “Forget about me. What's _she_ capable of?"

"Oh, just stop already. Your denial is getting rather pathetic. And _dull_. We know she's not coming back. We know all about the rules of regeneration. We know she gave her lives to you, which means she can't regenerate. Because of _you_. She's gone and she's not coming back. She's _dead_ , Doctor, and once again, it's all your fault."

"That might be so. But if there's one person you should never, ever expect to follow the rules,” he pauses, looking down at her with a besotted smile. “It's my wife."

Orion’s face falls, fear flashing across his features in a moment. But before the men can turn around, River is already reaching for her gun, her finger curling around the trigger. Time seems to slow again, a million micro movements occurring simultaneously. The men are quick as they reach for their weapons. River is quicker, rolling back into the shadows and firing her gun in one smooth motion. She aims for the lights, a dead hit that sends sparks and shards of glass raining down into the middle of the room.

Only one lamp remains, swinging haphazardly from the ceiling. It flickers wildly, a singular stream of erratic light penetrating the blackened room. River uses the darkness as her ally, shifting among the shadows as if she were nothing more than a specter. Weapons discharge in a hail of fury, flashes of blinding light sparking in every direction. Smoke clouds the small room, the potent smell of burned flesh, hot metal, and singed cloth filling the air. Distorted figures take shape around the wreckage, shifting, moving, falling, shouting. One form in particular moves with purpose, making its way toward the Doctor.

Panic floods his system and once again the Doctor finds himself struggling against his restraints, trying to break free. The sound of his screwdriver joins the cacophony of grunts and gunfire and the next thing he knows, Phoenix by his side, sonicing his bindings. The chain of metal around his ankles and arms go limp and when the Doctor looks up, he finds Phoenix is speaking to him, mouthing the same words over and over like mantra, a string of syllables that might be, _“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”_

The man is trembling and panicked and it occurs to the Doctor that perhaps this is how he plans to repent. He wants to ask him who he is and what he’s saying and why he’s here, but there isn’t time. Blaster fire continues to ignite the room like fireworks, crashing and banging making conversation impossible. Suddenly, a bright light explodes behind Phoenix, silhouetting his form and sending him hurdling into the Doctor. They collide with enough force to upend the metal seat, both men barreling across the cold concrete floor.

Untangling himself from the other man and snagging his sonic, the Doctor crawls back to the upturned chair, using it as a shield. He carefully peaks his head over the top, eyes seeking out River. He can just barely make her out as she dances her way across the darkened room. She works her magic like a true assassin, moving as quietly as a wraith and with all the grace of a ballerina, her strikes as quick and as deadly as a viper. Her movements are too fluid, too precise to grant them a chance for retaliation. One by one they fall, never even laying a finger on her.

A rogue blast ricochets off the Doctor’s metal shield and he instinctively ducks. It’s then he notices that Phoenix has not joined him in his hiding place. He remains where they fell, lying unconscious a few feet away. Except his chest no longer heaves and when the Doctor reaches out to the other man, he finds no pulse. Not unconscious. Shot. Dead.

A stab of pity briefly washes through the Doctor, clemency for this man that had helped him, who felt remorse, who had gingerly placed River’s body to the floor when the others would have carelessly let her drop. But the lapse of mild grief its short lived, halted by the distinct sound of River’s voice. Her distressed grunt commands his attention and without further thought, the Doctor springs up from his hiding place.

He quickly discovers that his efforts were for naught because one moment she is face to face with Pavo, swinging, dodging, shooting. The next she is twisting his arm behind him at an unnatural angle, pulling him to her and using him as a human shield. Another figure shifts among the shadows, the bursts from his blaster providing just enough light to identify the figure as Orion. He charges her, the glow of phaser fire casting an eerie hue on the man’s determined face as he unleashes a merciless hail of gunfire.

River hardly blinks at the assault, surging forward and leveraging the weight of her human shield, throwing his body into her attacker. The collision sends one of the guns clattering across the floor. The phaser fire ceases, taking the strobing bursts of light with it and limiting the Doctor’s vision. The only light source remaining is the one that still swings chaotically overhead. It sways over their figures rhythmically, illuminating their scuffle in snap shots. One moment Orion is behind her, his forearm around her throat. The light falls away, cloaking them in darkness. But before the Doctor can jump to her aid, the light swings towards them, revealing Orion on the floor at River’s feet, her heel slamming down hard on his chest while her blaster takes aim. The light swings back again, swallowing her in darkness as she pulls the trigger.  

The light above them slows, rocking softly back and forth in slow circles. It shines like a spot light and when the haze of smoke dissipates, River is standing center stage. Her cheeks are flushed and her chest still heaves. She is magnificent, a goddess, a warrior queen, unstoppable and unopposed. Her eyes find his across the wreckage, seconds passing in time with the flutter of his hearts. He forgets to breathe, all oxygen in his lungs stolen as River’s lips tug upward in a smile. It isn’t just any smile. It’s warm and bright and relieved, the blissful exhaustion of finally coming home after a long day. It’s the smile she reserves just for him.

“Hello, Sweetie,” she sighs the greeting like the closing of a prayer, and the Doctor rejoices to hear it because his endearment on her lips has never sounded so divine.

Time catches up to him then, snapping back into place like a rubber band pulled too tight. The reality of now, of _her_ , hits him with just as much force, overcoming him with the need to be near her, to close the distance between them and never part from her again. He must still have feet and legs that remember how to function because he finds himself moving toward her in a rush of wobbly limbs. River’s weapon clatters to the floor as they collide, coming together the way two halves of a whole always do. They mold as one in perfect synchronization. His arms fold around her, a cocoon of warmth and safety, a promise to never let go. Simultaneously, River collapses into his embrace, clinging to him as if she were drowning and he were a fresh breath of air. It’s nothing short of desperate, holding one another as if the universe were ending and coming together again all in the same moment.

Her body is putty against his own, her warm breath ragged against his cheek as she softly sighs, “I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” he asks, his confused voice a whisper against her skin.

“Kill them. It’s only a stun,” she laughs lightly against his throat. “I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

The Doctor sighs out a chocked sound that could be a laugh or a sob as he smothers his face into her curls, breathing her in. She’s always thinking of him. Even now, in the wake of everything, she’s still trying to do what’s right. As if he cares about the lives of these men when there’s a living, _breathing_ River wrapped in his arms. Letting out another shaky sigh, he admits, “I thought I lost you.”

“Because I bled out in front of you?” River huffs out a quiet laugh, breathless. “Don't be so clingy.” 

But her words are the antithesis of her actions, her fingers curling around the fabric of his coat as her knees buckle beneath her. River collapses, the full weight of her going limp in his arms as she clings to him for reasons more desperate than a loving embrace.

The Doctor falls to the floor with her, cradling her in his arms. “River,” he gasps frantically, “River, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Not enough,” she swallows against a dry throat, weak, strained.

“Not enough what?” he shouts urgently. River’s eyes flutter shut, exhausted, and the Doctor’s hand comes up to cradle her cheek, brushing the hair from her face. “River! Come on. You have to tell me. Not enough what?”

She stirs in his arms, but her eyes remain closed, slipping back into unconsciousness as she quietly exhales, “Energy.”

A glance downward reveals her chest, where a blaster wound still scars her flesh. She’s not just exhausted. She’s still dying. It’s not just any energy she needs, but _regeneration_ energy. What little River had left plus the excess he’d passed on to her at the caves had given her a partial boost. It just wasn’t enough to restore her completely. Without a second thought, the hand cupping her face drops to her chest, once again preparing to pour his life force into hers. It doesn’t flow as easily as it had before. It feels thicker, syrup in his veins, a dull ache of syphoning a resource that’s running dry. He too is running out and he can feel how his body protests. But River needs him, now more than ever.

What little has trickled from his veins seems to hold no effect on River’s condition. The realization that he doesn’t have enough to save her crashes down on him like the inevitable tide, the universe relentless in its desire to throw them together only to rip them apart. This can’t be happening. He can’t lose her again. Not now. Not after everything.

There must be something he can do, some way to save her. He just needs to think. He needs more time. He needs more energy. But how? And from where? It’s not like he could just waltz into a hospital or a health spa and ask for an extra-large dose of liquid ener-

_“I'd hardly call this a health spa,” River chides, and the Doctor shrugs._

_"It might as well be. It's calming, healthy, and there's a basin of liquid energy."_

_"Actually," River critiques, stepping out onto the jungle floor, vegetation squishing beneath her feet. "It's a conglomeration of baryon particles, hyper condensed into a soup of dark matter to form an expansive plasma."_

_"Yeah." The Doctor hops onto the thick vegetation with decidedly less grace. "Exactly what I said."_

_“I think the life force of the universe is a tad more impressive than just ‘liquid energy'.”_

Of course! The Pools! What had River said? ‘ _Some of the earliest civilizations in the universe believed it to have healing powers.’_ If he doesn’t have enough energy, he’ll just borrow some from the center of the universe, use it as a catalyst to boost the little bit he has left.

Sonic still in hand, the Doctor scoops River into his arms and bolts for the door. Once again he’s met with dusty cement corridors. They don’t seem as daunting as they had before, not now that he knows his destination. With the electrical wiring on the walls and ascending numbers on the adjacent doors as his guide, the sprint back to the TARDIS is a simple one. His feet pound against the concrete in tune with his thundering hearts as he rounds the final corner. The TARDIS sits at the end of the hall like a beacon, its vibrant blue walls almost as inspiring as the light of recognition he’d seen in River’s eyes. His feet fall faster at the thought of them, the two most trustworthy and troublesome women in his life, his heart and his home together again.

The Old Girl must read his mind because those beautiful blue doors open automatically, the engines starting before he even crosses the threshold. Clambering inside, he secures himself by the railing. The ship shudders and shakes, flying as best she can without her pilot. The Doctor keeps busy by holding River in his arms and telling himself that this will work. Not because the universe owes it to him, but because he owes it to her. He owes it to River to give her this, her life, her memories, a husband that doesn’t come with a countdown. At long last, she deserves to have everything all in the right order.

The engines give a final jolt, signaling they’ve landed. The Doctor leaps without looking into the outside world, into the center of the universe, and into his last shred of hope. He lands on sure, sturdy feet, the underbrush crunching beneath his hurried steps as he rushes to the spot where not long ago they'd laughed and played, where they’d shed their clothing and swam, where he’d kissed her for the first time since forever. He isn't hesitant this time. He shows no care for causality or the ripple effect this pool could have on the universe. He cares about nothing except the woman in his arms and the need for her to breathe again.

He doesn't stop or slow in his pursuit as he descends on his destination. He continues to charge, leaping into the shallowed pools fully clothed. The force of his jump submerges them both, but his feet find purchase on a nearby rock, shooting them back to the surface. When he emerges, he lifts River along with him, cradling her to him exactly as he had done at the caves. Again, she lies unmoving in his arms. Again, her chest is marred with a scorch mark. Again, he has but one option left.

The plasma around them erupts at the first sparkle of gold, acting as a catalyst and setting off a chain reaction. Gold spreads, sparking like lightning. The liquid around them turns amber, glittering with life before swirling around them and engulfing them both in bright, glowing light. The electricity in the air amplifies tenfold. It no longer simply hums and buzzes with life. It practically sings.

It feels like fire in his veins as he drains the last of his excess years into her, giving his life to her as he always has, freely, gladly, and without regard for his own safety. He expends the remainder of his borrowed energy, pumping the shared life force back into her. He can feel himself swimming in her veins the way she had done for him all those years ago, the essence of them swirling and joining, breathing life into the woman he can’t live without.

It stings like days he’ll never live and sun rises he’ll never see. But the knowledge that she’ll live to see another, that they’ll see it together is salve enough for any wound. His bones scream in agony as the energy begins to wane, but his hearts scream louder, the joy of holding her drowning out every ounce of pain. Just a little bit more. They can do this. Together, they can do anything.

The damage is almost healed, her skin almost restored to its natural hue when he feels the last of his energy begin to sputter. The protesting of his body only drives him to push harder, pressing his lips to her forehead, willing this to work, and praying to deities he doesn’t believe in to bring her back to him. 

River gasps, filling her lungs like it’s the first breath she’s ever taken. Her eyes fly wide, shocked by the glowing water, the dull ache of receding pain, and the warm tingling enveloping her insides. She is dazed and shaken, stunned by where they are and what he's doing, surprised by everything but the sight of him. She gazes at him like she's seen him every second of her life, like there's nothing else worth seeing. Her eyes swell with tears of fondness, looking up at him like she knows him. To the Doctor, that knowledge alone is worth more than all the golden energy in the universe. It is worth more than extra lives and bodies and years. The love in her eyes is its own brand of eternity and he intends to drown in it. 

“Sweetie?” River’s voice croaks. “What did you do?”

The liquid around them still sparkles with swirls of gold, droplets of amber clinging to her lashes and curls. The last of his time swims around them, and yet, looking down at her now, he’s never felt more immortal. The Doctor strokes his thumb along her cheek, still a little out of breath as he answers, “The only thing I could do. I told you, I won’t lose you again.”

Her own fingers find his, curling around where they press against her cheek. It’s little more than a caress, but it feels like the forging of an unbreakable bond, of something more stubborn than fate and more eternal than time.

“Where are we?” she asks, never breaking her eyes from his.

 The Doctor gazes right back, certain that nothing in all of creation could make him look away. “Eden,” he tells her, and River’s eyes brighten to hear it.

“Sentimental,” she coughs, still weak, but somehow managing a smile as she whispers, “Idiot.”

The Doctor nearly chokes on his own huff of laughter, the smile stretching his cheeks warm and bright. “Always.”

“And those men,” she sobers slightly, making to sit upright. “Are they still at the base?”

“As far as I know,” the Doctor confesses, his guiding grip on her both tender and impossibly firm as River rights herself in the shimmering plasma. “What should we do with them?”

River drags a deep breath in through her nose, the corner of her cheek curling and something wicked dancing in her eyes as she purrs, “I have a few ideas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely gif set that inspired the Saudade flashback can be found [here](http://mysecondwife.tumblr.com/post/138824275027/saudade-a-portuguese-and-galician-word-for-a)
> 
> * * *


	21. Your Faith Was Strong But You Needed Proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Please consider this the **EPILOGUE**. The only reason I'm splitting it into two chapters (besides the fact that it's already grotesquely too long) is because the final chapter will be purely smut. For those who don't want smut, don't worry. You won't miss anything plot relevant. This is the end :) But for those that _DO_ , I’ll try to have it up (pun totally intended) in a week.
> 
> And now I'm going to do that thing all authors do and gush all over you guys on the last chapter. Thanks so much for sticking with me through this entire story. I know a lot of you have been here since day one and you have no idea how much that means to me. Thank you to everyone for giving me a chance, and double thank you for the comments, kudos, and support! Without you guys, I would have lost faith in this story ages ago. lol I hope it's everything you wanted it to be. And at the risk of ruining everything, I felt like it was time to see things from River’s perspective. So here’s the world’s longest epilogue. Enjoy. :)

 

“To make an end is to make a beginning.” –T.S. Eliot

 

* * *

 

She works her way backwards, starting with the base.

Which is fitting, she thinks. To end it like this, tying up the last of this mess the way she'd always lived her life: back to front.

She does what needs doing alone. Truth be told, she’s always preferred to handle these things on her own. Less distractions that way. Besides, this is a sensitive matter; and, despite his best efforts, the Doctor never has been any good at being inconspicuous. But this, back tracking, cleaning up his messes, dealing with the fallout, this is what River Song does best. So when she smiled sweetly and told him to let her handle it, that he’d only endanger himself or get in the way, the Doctor conceded with barely any protest at all.

He drops her off at the base. The TARDIS hardly even lingers long enough to light her way, fading away before the dust around her has the chance to settle. He’s no doubt hurrying off to squeeze in another adventure before he meets her where she asked him to. _If_ he meets her where she asked him too, she scolds herself. River’s never been one to set unreasonably high expectations, especially where the Doctor is concerned. He could be ever so forgetful, not to mention easily distracted. There’s never been a guarantee she’ll get the right him or that he’ll even show up at all. And she’s fine with that. She always has been.

 _“I’ve arsed up this rescue quite spectacularly, haven’t I?” He apologizes like he expects her to agree, to smile and tease him as if everything between them is peachy._

_River hums in response, his need to compensate for her intentional indifference growing more audible by the second. “How did you even know I was in need of rescue?” River asks, breaking the silence before he can apologize again or attempt to lighten the mood with more of his self-deprecating antics._

_“When you left the TARDIS, I followed you.” His answer is raw and honest, as if there was never any other option but to chase her into oblivion.  It makes her itch with unanswered questions, the skeptic and the foolish optimist battling within her. He’s a liar and a fraud and yet he’s here, with her, to help her, to save her. He’s bickering and teasing her like his actions are nothing, like her forgiveness is something that he owns rather than something to be earned. It makes her furious and resentful and, heaven help her, curious._

_“Why?” River presses. Why would he follow her here? What does he want from her? What is he to her? Who is he really?_

_The question seems to cause him physical pain. Though she can’t see him, his shifting gives him away. He’s nervous, his tongue flicking at his lips like it wants to confess something his brain simply will not allow. The weight of his contemplative silence speaks for him and she knows before he speaks that his words will carry more power than the oppressive darkness around her and make her feel more vulnerable than the restrains that hold her in place._

_John, the Doctor, whoever he is, lets out a breath, reverent and tender, as he answers, “I promised to keep you safe.”_

It isn’t until she notices her eyes are lingering on the cold, metal chair that River lets out a shaky sigh, pushing the memory aside. Everything they’ve said or done since the hospital lingers inside her mind like stagnant water. Looking back is like seeing their time together through a looking glass, like having two different memories of the same event. There is how she felt at the time, when she knew nothing about him, when he was just a kind stranger that gave her butterflies and came charging in to save her like a white knight. And there is now, when she can look back and see everything for all that it was and all that it wasn’t.

The words _I love you_ ring in her ears, and she shakes her head, blatantly ignoring the constricting in her chest.

Her chest, where not long ago a blaster had scorched her, nearly stopping her hearts. She was dying, of course he’d told her that. What else could he have offered as consolation? But for a moment she'd believed him, the her that didn't know the Doctor doesn't use words like _love_. He doesn't feel them either, not in the way humans do. Not in the way she does.

She is more than just human, of course. She has all the capacity for knowledge and years as a Time Lord. But she loves like humans do, fiercely and without reserve. She does it with all the drive and focus of a psychopath, leaving her hearts stubbornly fixed on him, endlessly allowing him the power to tear her apart and piece her back together. There was only ever enough spaced carved out for him, the most impossible and brilliant and unattainable man in the universe. He, who was so much bigger than all those humany emotions and far too ancient and detached to ever understand what it meant to fall in love.

But for one shining moment, she believed he could. In the fragile bubble between drawing her last breath and learning to breathe again, he was hers. The blood draining from her body made her cold. But his words had warmed her in a way she's never allowed herself to be warmed before. He melted the sheen of ice she so carefully sculpted to guard herself. He tore away her defenses with three words he didn’t even mean. She isn't sure if she's grateful or hateful for her state of ignorance. Because that feeling, that fleeting moment, no matter how false, will stick with her for the rest of her days. It will cling, rattling inside her chest and sticking in her throat like a sickness that won’t seem to fade.

She feels like two sides of a coin, remembering their days together as both a blank slate and as the woman who has all the answers. There is learning him and there is knowing him. There is loving him and falling for him all over again. To be honest, she isn’t sure which reality she prefers.

River pushes that thought aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. The room remains rich with the smell of phaser fire, the unconscious bodies of her former kidnappers still littered across the floor. They are incapacitated, harmless, defenseless. She shoots them again, just for good measure. After all, they tranqued her twice. It’s only fair she return the favor.

Another figure lays sprawled across the concrete, one she hadn’t dealt with personally. Phoenix lies face up just behind the Doctor’s chair and River makes her way over to him, checking his pulse. He’s dead, as she suspected. She isn’t sure if it’s relief or pity that courses through her muscles, making her shoulders sag at the sight of him. He was one of them, yes, but he had helped her. He had shown compassion where the others had been cruel. He must have been the one to free the Doctor, probably saving him in the process. And for that, River can’t bring herself to simply leave him here to rot where no one will ever find him.

There’s no ring on his finger, but surely there must be someone to mourn him. Maybe she’ll leave him with the Time Agency, let them be the ones to figure out who he is and track down when and where his next of kin reside. She’ll do it anonymously, of course. The less people that know about her soft spot for scrawny idiots, the better. As for the others, well, River has plans for them.

After she disposes of them, she’ll take care of the base. Burn it and everything inside, purge all their files and tech until there is no evidence that any of them were ever here at all. River rises to her feet, making her way toward the trolley Phoenix had rolled in. On its lower shelves exists an array of stolen gadgets and gismos. River takes it upon herself to assume ownership of some of the naughtier toys, including a new vortex manipulator. This one is stealthier, sleeker, and a damn sight less conspicuous than her last model. It wraps around her wrist effortlessly, clinging to her more elegantly than some of her most prized jewelry.

All else aside, she really can’t fault their taste. These cowboys certainly had a hankering to possess the finer things in life. It seems a shame to burn it, really. Most of these items would go for a pretty penny in the right circles. Any other day and she wouldn’t hesitate to find a buyer. But for now, she has bigger fish to fry.

Then again…

A smirk curls its way up Rivers cheek, a better idea springing to mind.

 

\---

 

The Dam is busy today, too busy for River’s liking. She makes extra effort to keep her wits about her, never letting anyone get close enough to casually bump into her. Busy markets like this might as well be a buffet for the sticky fingered sort, and she’s really not in the mood to break the arm of anyone unfortunate enough to pick her pockets. As a precaution, River finds herself scooting to the edge of the aisle, letting an elderly woman cradling a man eating Ficus move past.

“There must be something exorbitant from every century in here,” Jim awes, riffling through the box of goodies she deposited on the counter. As he fusses over the contents, the sunlight catches on his long, scaly coat, making the silver dance with pinks and greens. Jim’s seen a lot in his line of work. There aren’t many things that can fluster him, and River takes personal satisfaction in the way his eyes always light up whenever she informs him she’s brought him a present. “Honestly, River, this is much too gracious. I can't accept this!”

“Really, Jim, it’s fine. Don’t mention it.” River’s tone is friendly but her eyes flash with something wicked and dangerous, silently adding, _to anyone._

Jim swallows behind a fond smile, understanding her message. That’s what she likes about Jim, he never asks too many questions and she can always count on his discretion. “At least let me give you something in return,” he insists, eyes flittering across the small table of merchandise. “Have you seen my newest perfume? It doubles as a holographic wardrobe mist.” He picks up the bottle, brandishing it out to her with a hopeful smile. “Comes with eight programmable outfits and it smells divine.”

River shakes her head, laughing lightly. “Still making good use of the last sample you gave me, I’m afraid. Let’s just consider this a favor.” 

“Owing a favor to you?” Jim arches a brow, smirking deviously. “A man should be so lucky.”

River’s expression matches his, eyes sparkling and an impish purr thickening her tone. “You have no idea.”

Jim lowers his arm, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he scolds her. “Wish you wouldn’t tease me like that, River. It isn’t good for my health. Besides, that ball and chain of yours gets frightfully jealous.”

“Why do you think I do it?” River chuckles. “Oh, and speaking of flirting, is Casia around?”

Jim’s brow pinches together, offering a puzzled frown. “It’s her day off. Sorry, I wasn't aware you two had met.”

“We will have done.” River smiles softly, mildly disappointed by her own poor timing as she turns to exit the store. “Tell her thank you for me, yeah?”

Jim gives an understanding nod, still smiling affectionately as River turns to leave. As she twists, her eyes scan her surroundings, taking in the array of curious objects and shoppers when something out of her peripheral vision catches her attention, making her give pause. It's tiny, black, discrete, hardly worth noticing at all. And yet River finds herself walking toward it, a tingle of familiarity pulling her in. It's entirely out of place, a small piece of plastic mingling amongst potted flowers and ferns. But River recognizes the device instantly.

_“It’s a broadcast beacon, that if plugged into, oh, I don’t know, a _communicator_ , it would amplify the homing signal of said device, taking us straight to the source.”_

River smiles, plucking up the tiny object and rolling the smooth plastic between her fingers. Oh, she is clever. “Jim,” River calls, twisting back around with the beacon in hand. “I think I’ll trade in that favor after all.”

 

\---

 

The Egyptian night air is blissfully cool, caressing at her cheeks and playing in her hair like it has a mind of its own. There’s a crispness on the wind that tastes like old memories and bites like the strain of a clock yearning to tick. Time is still fragile here at the epicenter, still crackling with electricity from days that never were. The imprint of her rebellion still nips at the atmosphere; and when she closes her eyes she can feel the fractures in reality dance across her skin. Life and death and now and never merge as one. Energy flows through her, tugging at her mind. Except this time, it doesn’t hurt. Now that her memories are restored, the current around her brushes against her lips. It caresses her like a kiss, an aftershock of the Doctor’s mouth and how it had moved against hers all those years ago.

River stands near the edge of the monument, letting the rush of being on the precipice of something greater than herself wash over her. It’s exactly where she’d stood before, when her mind ached to remember days that never happened and a wedding history would never see, when her lips tingled to recall a kiss that saved time and a promise more infinite than all of space.

She opens her eyes, turning to locate the spot where he’d plopped down cross-legged on the ancient stone and offered to rub her temples. The mirage of his form, that silly Hawaiian shirt flapping in the wind and a rather ridiculous grin stretched across his face, is still crisp in the forefront of her mind. The memory of those long fingers pressing into her skin is still fresh enough to make her shiver, the blissful contentment that settled between them still warm enough to ward off the chilly desert breeze.

She recalls how just earlier that night she found herself _half on top of him, her hand resting quite happily on his chest._ _She wants to feel bad for him, really she does. But it's his own fault_ _he fell over. He should have known better than to try and steal a girl’s sweets._

_“Are you alright?” River asks, barely subduing a grin._

_“Yeah. Me hat took most of the blow.” He’s still rubbing at his sore head and River bites her tongue to keep her laughter at bay. Not that his injury is in any way amusing, it’s the face he’s making. All scrunched up as he rubs at his head like a pouting child. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is._

_“Maybe it’s a lucky hat,” River offers as consolation, untangling her limbs from his long enough for him to sit upright against the rocks. He looks ridiculous, with his atrocious hat and utterly appalling Hawaiian shirt. And yet the sight of him leaning against the stone wall is too tempting an invitation to pass up._

_As soon as he’s settled, she eases herself back into his side. He doesn’t protest, rather, he wraps his arm around her, cradling her to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he’s done it a million times before. He even takes the liberty of plopping his abomination of a hat upon her head. She allows it, if only because she’s too comfortable to bother moving. He’s surprisingly cozy considering his scrawny physique. No, not quite scrawny, more like wiry, lithe, lean. She wiggles slightly, making a nest in the sharp angles of his body. The urge to let out a pleased hum swells in her throat, but she settles for curling into him further, holding out her candy as a peace offering. He accepts with a giddy smile, and together they lay in content silence, listening, breathing._

_Everything about him seems to come easy, their banter, the way he orbits around her like he anticipates her every move. It’s a little terrifying how quickly and easily she came to trust him, how seamlessly he fits into her life even though she can’t remember most of it._

_Here, bathed in the music of Darillium, he feels as familiar breathing. Being curled into him feels as natural as the beating of her hearts. And she knows that she shouldn’t, but she can’t help but wonder if maybe she’s the one he’d spoken about, the one he loved, the one whose timing was never quite right._

_“It was,” she decides, the hum in her throat making itself known in the form of quiet confession._

_The gangly man beside her shifts, brow furrowed as he gazes down at her quizzically. “Was what?”_

_River simply smiles, eyes still fixed on the Singing Towers as she answers, “Worth the wait.”_

River pushes the thought aside, focusing her attentions to the pyramid at her feet. She kneels down on the ruins in search of the right groove in which to hide her beacon. Upon locating one, she places a kiss to the device before wedging it between the rocks.

Time around her shifts as if some great cosmic puzzle is slowly slipping into place. But as quickly as the thought can dance across her mind, a new one takes its place. As if on cue, the groaning of the TARDIS signals her past self is about to arrive. The Old Girl pulses into view, her bright blue doors standing out against the faded stone. River doesn’t stare long, typing her next destination into her newest toy and vanishing before a younger her can emerge from the timeless, wooden box.

 

\---

 

Crossing one’s timeline is something of an art, one River has taken to mastering. Which, today, happens to work in her favor.

She materializes inside the Asgardian souvenir shop just in time to hear the bell chime as the Doctor bolts from the building. She figured it was best to play this one close to the chest, to follow like a shadow, to sail in the wake of their former selves. At least this time around she has the privilege of knowing they’re being hunted, and where better to hide than in the places she already knows she won’t be discovered.

The roar of the festivities is only slightly muted by the shop’s stone walls, but the hum of an AC unit provides for calming background noise as River makes her way around the small store. The window at the front, where all the tackiest merchandise can always be found, is her destination. And just as she knew there would be, amid the selection of trinkets are snow globes for all nine realms.

One of River’s deft hands scoops up a snow globe depicting Valhalla. It’s an exact replica of the one he’d given her just before unceremoniously zapping her away, the very same one she’d given to his younger self with the spikey hair and brown suit. She turns the keepsake over, light sparkling off the glass as she inspects it for imperfections. Satisfied, River reaches for another, this one showcasing the thriving city of Galgvior. They’re equal in size and weight and she reasons that swapping the bases shouldn’t be too difficult a task with the help of her sonic.

Outside, the tempo of the music changes and River finds a soft smile has stolen its way onto her cheeks. Fast paced music, warm sun, and a snow globe in hand, the familiarity of the situation can’t be ignored. She finds her thoughts floating back to the last time she was in this shop, when her much younger self stood in this very spot, a cotton sundress clinging to her form and plans for a picnic buzzing in her mind. She remembers how delighted she was to find him here, how she covered his eyes with her fingers and brushed her lips against the back of his neck. The memory of how he greeted her is as vivid as ever, shock and awe and _hope_ painted across his features, as if she was something majestic to behold, her presence an answer to a desperate prayer. His hands had trembled, his eyes anxious, and his shaky voice as hopeful as ever. She remembers her need to help him, to somehow fight a battle that hadn’t reached her yet as he begged her for answers she couldn’t possibly know.

She flinches at the recollection of how effortlessly he told her everything would be fine when he knew damn well that it wouldn't. It burns her how affectionately he'd pressed a kiss to her forehead, hiding his face from view. In light of everything, she wonders if his touches and his kisses ever meant anything at all. Was he only playing for the end game, buying time until his penance had been paid? How many of his confessions had been Rule One all along?

_Her cheeks burn with anger as she stares down at the communicator, her own pixilated face staring back at her. How could he do this? Why would he keep something like this from her? Doesn’t he trust her? "Why didn't you tell me? Why hide?"_

_"I…" he hesitates, deciding the best course of action. ”Didn’t want to worry you."_

_“You mean you wanted to protect me?" He remains silent just a little too long and River wonders just what else he's protecting her from? How much would he, did he, IS he withholding under the veil of keeping her safe?_

Her eyes fall to the window, where she can clearly see her younger, amnesia ridden self being ushered away, the Doctor's hand possessively wrapped around her waist. Another set of eyes observes them as they go. From her current view out the window, River doesn’t miss the frown that paints Orion's face as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a communicator and speaking into it as he watches his prey fade back into the crowd. 

The overwhelming urge to reach for her gun and shoot him on the spot makes River’s fingers itch. She can't kill or maim him, but surely just a graze or a flesh wound wouldn't do any harm to the timelines. He’d never even see her and she’d be gone before he ever knew what hit him. The idea makes her lips twitch upward and she's just about to reach for her holster when–

"Finding everything you need?" The owner of the shop speaks up, breaking the spell over her, and River twists to face him, flushing like a guilty child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. He eyes her curiously, but if he notices she’s no longer in the cotton dress he saw her in a moment ago, he doesn’t mention it.

“Quite,” River exhales, her fingers closing tighter around the snow globes. Her eyes drift helplessly back to the window, finding that her target has vanished. Shaking the thoughts away and plastering on a fake smile, River turns back to the shop keeper, giving him her full attention. "How much for these?"

 

\--

 

She materializes in the ladies toilets, earning a few frightened shrieks from some startled university students.

"Professor?" One of them manages, stunned eyes blown wide and mouth slightly agape.

"Hello, dear." River smiles, taking a moment to asses her reflection. Vortex manipulators were a bit like riding a motorcycle: efficient, flashy, and hellacious on the hair. "Just passing through. Don't mind me."

"But...,” the other girl stammers, eyes bouncing between River and the bathroom stalls. "Where did you come from?"

"Asgard," River says breezily, making her way toward the exit. "And before that, Egypt. It's been a hell of day." She laughs lightly, pausing as she opens the door to add, "Which reminds me, don't forget to turn in your papers."

With a wink, River exits the washroom, leaving the girls staring after her in dumbfounded silence. She takes caution before stepping out into the hallway, ever mindful of her past self’s imminent arrival and a certain Cowboy she knows will be searching for her.

It must be between classes, because the hallway is bustling with students, their combined chatter creating a dull roar of noise. At the far end of the walkway, River eyes catch sight of Xarida’s vibrant green skin and bold red sweater. She’s leaning against the wall, a smile on her lips as she converses with a tall, imposing figure. River recognizes her pursuer immediately, all but growling as she watches Orion lean in closer to her student. He whispers something that makes the young girl blush and giggle, her lashes fluttering as he reaches out to stroke one of her dark green spikes.

River practically seethes at the sight, knowing there’s nothing she can do. She’ll have to settle for having a word with the girl later, share a bit of advice about men with charming smiles and promises that seem too good to be true.

Momentarily burying her protective tendencies toward her students, River heads quietly in the other direction. She makes her way through the masses, crossing the short distance to her office and slipping inside with practiced ease. The lights buzz to life on command, illuminating the familiar room. It's exactly as she left it before her expedition to the Library, the muted walls adorned with photographs and gifts, her mahogany desk still cluttered with papers and her favorite lip-stained mug, her bookshelf filled with her most prized bound texts and speckled with keepsakes.

It's comforting and familiar and _normal_ , the latter probably being what she liked about it most. In her out of order life, it's nice to have somewhere where days on a calendar run linear, where there are deadlines and dates to keep and meetings to attend. All her life, River had been living on countdowns: to fulfill her training, to get out of prison, to run out of days where her parents knew her, to use up her kisses with a husband that trusted her. After a lifetime of going, it's nice to have somewhere to come home to. When she feels the things she holds most dear slipping away, it's comforting to know there's a place that will always be waiting.

The Doctor had certainly never been one for that. He could hardly stand coming to her office, as if just the sight of somewhere so mundane made him itch. Before, he'd always regarded it with slight disdain and fear, like her static life and title of Professor was contagious, as if responsibility would leap out and bite him or clamp around his ankle like a ball and chain.

Their most recent visit hadn't been like before. He didn't shy away from reminders of normalcy or the life she led when he wasn't around. He had gobbled up the sight of her office like a connoisseur in an art museum, his attention to detail so thorough she honestly believed it was the first time he'd set foot in the room.

Or perhaps he was just curious. He's been here a handful of times, back when their countdown was growing closer and closer to zero. He popped in near the end of her timeline to say hello, to show up and remind her to miss him, to flash his bright smile and make things seem duller in his absence, to make things that had once been enough feel like something was missing.

He fulfilled his duties, even though she suspected he was growing board of her, especially after her parents were out of the picture. She wasn't as much fun to him in his later years, when all her mysteries were unraveled. He didn't seem to want her towards the end, when she wanted him most.

Facts she'd come to terms with now make her give pause. When she and the Doctor had last come here in search of clues, he had been nothing if not eager to examine every inch of her office, curiously smiling at her framed pictures and rifling through old boxes. Then again, maybe the curiosity she saw dancing in his eyes stemmed from absence. Maybe he'd been gone so long he'd forgotten all about her keepsakes and stacked books and paper weights. Maybe he simply forgot. Or maybe he never bothered to remember them at all.

_These are her caves. They’re beautiful and impossible and built upon millennia of sky and earth coming together to forge something incredible. But more importantly, they are hers. No one else’s. They’re where she runs to when she’s sick of running._

_The man beside her seems dumbfounded that such a place would exist, and not because something so beautiful was born on such a volatile planet. He is shocked by the revelation that something belonged solely to her, offended that he hadn't heard her speak of it before._

_What’s worse is, his quiet disappointment bothers her. She hardly knows him and yet she feels oddly guilty, like she kept some terrible secret or hidden a part of herself from him. This man who knows so much about her, who remembers things like how she takes her tea and what she eats for breakfast is devastated by the sight of her caves, by a side of her he doesn’t know. How does he have this power over her? Why does he make her feel guilty for having a secret? Why does he care? Why did she feel compelled to show him these caves at all? Why does that contemplative look on his face make her hearts flutter? Why does she want him to know her when she hardly knows anything about herself?_

_"I come here to be alone," she confesses quietly, forcing her voice to be sturdier when she adds, "_ _I’ve never brought anyone else. That’s why I’ve never mentioned it._ _"_

_He looks so intrigued, like her words are prayer or salvation or the best kept secrets in all the universe. "Why bring me then?" he asks softly, and she tries not to notice the way his voice wavers with quiet concern, his eyes laced with gratitude._

_She focuses instead on her vortex manipulator and the colors it displays, marking her progress as she tinkers with the array of wires and sensitive mechanisms inside. In the distance, thunder rumbles. But the sound of his breathing is far more distracting. Her own hearts pounding in her chest for reasons she can't explain. She wants to tell him **that's** why. To grab his hand and place it over her hearts and answer his question with a million of her own._

_Before she gets the chance, the tool in her hands flashes red and River sighs, taking it as a sign. "It doesn't matter."_

_She feels his frame tighten beside her, angry with her or himself or everyone or no one in particular. Despite his inner conflict, when he speaks his voice is timid, curious, friendly. "Tell me," he prompts and he's wearing such a look of eager interest that River can’t help but soften. There’s rare beauty to be found when someone who genuinely wants to know is listening. There’s magic in the intensity of their eyes as they gobble up words, trying to learn another person with nothing but the cadence of syllables and soft, meaningful sighs._

_"I’ve lost a lot,” River confesses, her voice quiet even to her own ears. “I guess I wanted to share this with someone. Someone I trust. For safe keeping, in case I lose any more.”_

_The way he’s looking at her is enough to make her shiver. Not because it's heated, though he thinks she didn't notice the way he gawked at the fabric clinging to her frame or her wind tousled curls. But his eyes track her face, too. They linger on the corners of lips as if he could make her smile through sheer force of will. He gazes into her eyes like he's searching for something, some light or answer or confession, as if there is truth there he's made it his life's ambition to learn._

_It's all too much and she's forced to tear her eyes from him, breaking the moment with a sigh of bravado as she dutifully returns to her work. “Or maybe I just wanted to see you get sand out of that fancy purple suit."_

_He lets the moment pass, looking down at his own hands and letting her vulnerability scatter like dust in the wind. River is glad to see it dissipate like a fine mist. She must have read the signals wrong or been reading too much into it. He doesn't want learn about her, not really. Why would he? They’re stranded in a cave and he's just passing the time. He probably won't even remember._

River makes her way to her desk, where he'd been standing when he discovered the snow globe. Underneath it she finds a small box she's been meaning to dispose of. Without wasting any time, she pulls the container out just enough for his clumsy feet to trip over, _bless him_ , and places the snow globe inside.

“ _What are we looking for exactly?”_ her past self announces their arrival, their faint voices floating through the airwaves, muffled by the thick, wooden door.

 _"Things that seem out of place. Anything you don’t remember that seems a little odd,”_ the Doctor answers, as giddy and cheerful as ever.

Inside the room, River smiles to herself, her fingers are already typing away at her vortex manipulator as her past self replies, _“You mean other than you?”_

River vanishes before the door lock disengages. There’s only has one place left to go.

 

\---

 

The Library is a damn sight brighter than it was last time she was here. And she doesn't just mean the well-lit rooms; she means the sea of shinning faces. The place is bustling, filled to capacity with smiles and echoing with laughter. Friends are being reunited and families made whole again. It's beautiful, a miracle, even. It’s the kind of scene worth dying for, and something inside her swells with warmth. 

One life to save thousands.

A final goodbye to ignite infinite hellos.

It was worth it, trapping herself in another prison so four thousand and twenty two souls could taste freedom.

They're dressed all in black and River stands out like a sore thumb among them. Her clothing is different, her smile less bright. The corners of her lips tremble, weighed down by inner demons and doubt. Try as she might to bask in their light, she can't keep her own shadows at bay. She forges on anyway, searching the halls and shelves for the blue book her sweetie left behind.

_The heart monitors beep steadily and the fluorescent lights buzz softly as the stranger before her falls into a contemplative silence. River lets the quiet stretch on, unable to stop herself from noting how comfortable he is with her, how familiar. But there's a sadness about him too. It clings to him like mist, beads of longing hanging from him like morning dew on autumn grass._

_Her eyes travel back to her lap, wondering if there's more answers to be found in the mysterious man at her side than in all the books sprawled out before her._

_"Where's your diary?" he blurts suddenly, and River’s eyes snap up to meet his._

_"My what?"_

_"A small, blue book. Very old,” he tells her, already jumping to his feet to search the room like a man possessed._

_"I haven't seen one," she confesses, sitting up to watch him as he kneels on the floor, searching under her bed. "Is it important?"_

_When he pops back up the tender look on his face has been replaced by a fierceness that steals her breath. There's fear dancing just behind his eyes as he swallows and says, "right now, finding that diary may just be the most important thing in the universe."_

She finds it not on a table or tucked away on a bookcase, but perched on the edge of a railing. It sits atop the metal like a throne, the sonic resting above it its a crown and the Library skyline its kingdom. He made what was left of her a monument, an ode to the woman trapped inside the planet's heart.

Placing her sonic safely in her pocket, River picks up the diary, smiling to herself at the familiar blue binding and the memories encased within. The sun has warmed the old leather, its color not as bright as it once was. The book is faded and cracked and loved, read and written in many times over.

Most importantly, it is closed, the pages exactly how she left them. He didn't peak, out of respect for her wishes or his own rules. Or maybe it was fear, of what he'd find, of what he'd gain, and what he'd already lost. He left her here because he didn't know that there was always a way out. She hadn't taught him yet.

A lesson she’s still teaching him, River muses as she opens the book, her fingers flicking through the frayed edges of her beloved diary. Maybe just once more, for old time’s sake, she’ll show him, she’ll restore his faith. Flipping to the end and tearing out the last bit of parchment, River decides to do as she’s always done. She’ll leave him a note.

 It only seems fitting to forge a new beginning from the final page.

She keeps it simple, concise, just enough to keep him hooked, scrawling out coordinates for the hospital in her unique ledger. She seals the message with a kiss, knowing full well he’ll take the bait, that he’ll waltz into that ER like a man reborn and the cycle of doing what’s been done will begin again. Now, there’s only the small matter of making sure he gets it.

Mingling with the crowd, River spots one of the Library attendants, not one of the interactive faces, but a proper attendant sent in to help with the clean-up.  "Excuse me," she announces, marching up to the Quatto and gaining its attention. "Can you see to it that my husband gets this?"

The creature eyes her questioningly as she extends her hand, offering the folded parchment. "I'm not the best with human faces,” the creature says hesitantly, extending one of its many arms to accept the note. "How will I know him?"

River flashes an enigmatic smile, already fading back into the crowd as she offhandedly instructs, "You won't miss him. Just look for the panicking idiot in a bow tie."

No sooner have the words left her mouth does River realize that she must have been the one to lure him back to the Library in the first place, a message from her the summons that begot this trail of breadcrumbs. He would never come back here of his own accord. Her Doctor was never one for repeats. And that’s just it, she’ll have to be more careful than the last time. She needs to ensure the right version receives the message.

Taking a deep breath, River wills her mind to make a connection with his psychic paper, tugging carefully at the fabric of time to ensure it reaches a version of him far enough along in his time stream. She loves all of his faces, but for this she needs _her_ Doctor. She needs gangly limbs and a school boy smile. She needs an old man's soul clothed in a young man's body.

River steels herself, focusing on _bow ties_ and _blue_ and _the_ _way he bops her nose_. She thinks of nights there were two of him and planets with Rain Gods. She thinks of towers that sing and the goodbye kiss he gave her before he leapt into his own time stream. By the time she finds a connection far enough along in his time line, she already knows what she'll say, something subtle but unmistakable, something too specific to be coincidence, something to give him just enough hope but not give the game away too soon. Only one message will do, the message that started it all.

_“The Library. Come as soon as you can. X”_

Before she can even catch her breath, the groaning of the TARDIS fills her ears. And just like that fate is sealed, all the puzzle pieces fitting seamlessly together as a message to his slightly younger self is sent just as the elder version she's been running with since her escape from the Library appears. River’s eyes snap to attention, tracking the sound, searching the sea of people for a beacon of blue. Elation shoots through her when she spots it in an abandoned corridor, standing tall and bright against a cream colored wall. She wonders if coming here was an afterthought or if he came straight from dropping her off at the base.

In the end, she decides it doesn’t matter. He's really here, right on schedule, just like she asked him to be.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn’t surprised to see that he showed up at all and hadn't gotten distracted in his endeavor to avoid another goodbye, that he followed through even though he was no longer dictated by their twisted timelines or obligated by the actions of his future self.

He came when she called. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

But the sudden rush of joy doesn’t last long. Almost instantly it is tampered by an equally powerful thought: there's nothing tying him to her any longer. No reason to keep track of a diary or catch her when she leaps out of space ships. No reason to be in her life at all. _But he's here now_ , her hearts whisper. Her brain is quick to combat the niggling hope, scolding her with the reminder that he only came out of habit. Or maybe he came to give her closure. Maybe he hurried here, not to say hello, but to give her a proper goodbye. Surely he wouldn’t want her now that he's not governed by a fate she all but trapped him into the very first time he met her.

Part of her wants to run, to save him the trouble of explanation and herself the pain of hearing her worst fears finally spoken aloud. And yet, even as dread pulses through her, she crosses the distant with ease, her feet pulled toward that bright blue box like a moth to a flame.

Her hearts hammer against her freshly healed chest as she approaches the TARDIS, afraid of what she’ll find there, of the man waiting for her inside. She lingers by the entrance, curling into it like one does the comfort of bedsheets after a trying day. The spicy smell of the vortex still clings to the door frame and a soft breeze threads its fingers through her curls. His essence still thrives in her veins, warming her from the inside out. Doing her best to ignore the sensation, River places her hand on the TARDIS and pushes open the door, slipping inside.

Effortlessly, her eyes seek him out, the picture he paints causing the last of her dwindling hope to crumble like pastry. He's been pacing. She can tell by the twitch in his step and the hum of the console. He’s a bundle of nervous energy. It radiates off him in waves, evidence of it written in his hair, matted and wild from the tug of his fingers. Even after all this time, she can still read him, still catch his twitches and quirks. And right now it’s never been more obvious that he’s dreading this moment, _her_ , on the TARDIS, alone. His tightly clenched jaw and the sharp angles it carves into his face tell her he’s been fretting on what to say, how to explain away all the promises he had no intention of keeping. He should know by now that she knows him better, that just because he didn't want her to die doesn't mean she expects him to live out his days with her.

He’s never been one to stick around for long. He’s probably only here now because he feels obligated to explain himself, another quirk he’s never been great at. If the pattern holds, this whole encounter will just become more damage they hide, another chapter in their long life together they ignore, another fight they brush under the rug and never speak of again. If she even sees him after today. Without pages of her diary to fill and the weight of timelines pressing down on them, he may no longer feel the need to come when she calls. Their days could be done. And that's fine. She had her time.

River’s eyes drift downward to her diary, weathered, worn, and _closed_ , a reminder that all stories must someday come to an end.

It’s all a little surreal, being here with him. It’s hard to keep her chin high and her hearts steady. But it would be harder on them both if he knew just how terrified she truly is. Summoning strength, River buries the ache in her chest and stretches her lips into a semblance of a smile. “All taken care of,” she announces dutifully, already making plans to leave this ship as soon as she can. _Rule thirty three:_ _Never stick around too long or he’ll forget to miss you_.

At the sound of her voice, his eyes snap to attention, nearly jumping out of his skin like a naughty child caught with his hand in the sweets jar. Something in the way he’s looking at her makes her uneasy. He’s never looked at her like that before, stunned and a little anxious. It makes her wary, treading carefully into the TARDIS like these once familiar walls are now laced with booby-traps, like she knows nothing about this ship she calls mother and its thief she calls husband.

"I left them in the jungle of one of the Formidulosus’ moons,” she forges ahead, flashing a smile that not even she believes. “Landed them just in time for wet season. They won't be a problem for us anymore. They might even survive.”

“Might?” he queries, his sharp eyes watching her as she makes her way toward him.

The tension between them is palpable, but River’s steps are sure, portraying more confidence than she feels as she comes to a stop at the console. She keeps her distance from him, standing a few feet away and feigning interest in the controls as she set the TARDIS in flight. If he notices the deliberate gap between them, he offers no comments and makes no move to rectify it.

She can’t help but notice the way timelines don’t creak at their close proximity, causality itself no longer aching from the imminent threat of paradox. The air feels thinner now that they’re linear, the back of her mind too quiet without the ticking of a clock counting down their every encounter. Even the secrets encased within her diary don’t feel as heavy now that the past and the future have finally caught up with them.

At the thought of it, the blue book burns in her hand. Holding it close suddenly feels like clinging to the past, like a lifeline it’s high time she let go of. Tucking her beloved book away, River distracts herself by answering the Doctor’s question.

“It's only a week or so’s hike to the mainland,” she tells him, a practiced smile plastered to her cheeks. “And the acid rain isn't due for a fortnight. But you know those cheeky hurricanes. They're ever so fickle."

“That’s not enough,” the Doctor blurts, shaking his head in distress. It’s clear by the tone of his voice that what he means is _that’s better than they deserve_. Something akin to desire and shame highlights the shadows on his face. It showcases the darkness within him and the depths his old soul can sink.

River stalls, the look in his eyes making her brow furrow in confusion. She spared those men's lives for him, been on her best behavior for him, because it's what he would want, what he always wants. But that’s not what he'd intended for these men, was it? He'd sought more than just resolution. He'd wanted vengeance. She's standing there, in front of him, alive and well, and still he would see those men pay.

“I mean,” the Doctor clears his throat, quick to blink aside the urges haunting him, passing it off as concern. "Just subjecting them to finicky weather and an unpleasant hike is a bit of a risk, don't you think? What if they come after you again?"

He’s convincing, so much so that he thinks she misses it, the flash that says his concerns are selfish rather than practical, that punishment is exactly what he wanted. A shudder of sadness passes through her, face softening at the bitter realization that this is Manhattan all over again. Violence begetting violence and it makes her hearts ache. Not because those men deserved better, but because the Doctor does. He shouldn't have to carry any more burdens or feel the resounding echo wrath leaves on the soul. Maybe he’s been alone too long. Maybe he's forgotten their most fundamental rule: forgiveness.

"Trust me, Doctor," River says quietly, pretending she hasn't seen what they both know is dancing just beneath the surface, that she hasn’t always seen him for all he is and all he's capable of. She buries the moment with a nonchalant tone and a practiced smile. "The air is spectacularly toxic to the human circulatory system and crippling to the short term memory. They’ll be lucky if they remember the last fifteen years of their lives. Even if they manage to get off that moon, they won't know their left foot from their ball-"

"River!" the Doctor squeaks, fidgeting and flushing at her crass analogy.

"What? All I'm saying is ten minutes in that rainforest and any cockamamie stories about Time Lords and their back-from-the-dead wives will be completely discredited as jungle fever. That is, if they don't get eaten by mosquitoes first."

She takes a moment to toss him a coy smile, finding him eyeing her warily. "When you say eaten by mosquitoes, do you mean figuratively or...?"

"Who can say?" River shrugs, and the Doctor shakes his head in protest.

"I still don’t believe that's enough. They were clever enough to capture you. What makes you think they won't be resourceful enough to get out of there unscratched?”

“They weren't.”

“Weren't what?”

“Clever enough to catch me,” River boasts, unable to help the smug little smirk tugging at the corner of her cheeks. “I got caught on purpose.”

She can feel the way the Doctor gapes at her. His slackened jaw speaks of baffled disbelief, but the embers in his hazel eyes burn with outrage. “Why would you do that?” 

“I needed to investigate,” she announces, shoulders squaring in defiance. “And men are all the same. If you want to manipulate them, you need go no farther than letting them think they're in charge.”

The anger written on his face slips, replaced by something else entirely as his eyes fall away from her. From the corner of her eye, she follows his line of vision. His gaze has dropped to the console, where the long spindly fingers on his left hand toy absentmindedly with one of the TARDIS’ controls. She wonders what about her admission brought on his sudden shift, what wounds he’s silently licking, when, “You didn’t believe those awful things they said, then? That was just an act?”

He’s quiet when he asks, and River is sure a loaded question has never before been so delicately spoken. She makes a point to not meet his eyes, busying her hands by typing into the console. “They told me half a story, a story that would get me to do what they wanted. Sound familiar? Besides, I'm an archaeologist. I never take anything at face value."

“And when you almost let those maniacs fry your brain, was that you investigating, too?”

“No,” River exhales with confidence. “That was an educated guess. Before you found me in the TARDIS library, I read one of the books about Time Lord regeneration.”

“What, all of it?”

He’s blinking at her, eyes wide, and _bless him_ , because he sounds so impressed she almost hates to admit, “Well, I skimmed it, the important chapters anyway. I gathered enough to know that if I was indeed part Time Lord and my brain was injured, a kick start of regeneration energy would do the trick. So I figured, why not?”

“River," the Doctor sputters, protests hot on his tongue and fingers twitching to tug at his hair in exasperation. “You can’t just… What if you’d… Or if _they’d_ …” His thoughts trip over themselves, stumbling out of his mouth in a flurry of frustration.

It feels like doubt, like he doesn't trust her anymore. A century of following her into danger, of watching her take risk after risk and suddenly he wants to act like this isn’t the part she plays. For as long as she can remember he’s expected the impossible from her. She has no idea why he wouldn’t think her capable of it now, why she’s suddenly undeserving of his faith. It makes her insides boil and her hearts break and she can't help the way her words crack at the air like a whip as she snaps, "It worked, didn't it?"

He winces at the harshness of her tone and the thinly veiled accusation lurking within. "Barely," he sighs finding the courage to look at her once more. River returns the courtesy, eyes tracking the sharp contours of his face as he asks, "How did you know you had any energy left?”

“I didn’t,” she admits. “But it was my only shot and I took it.”

A shadow of guilt passes over his face, a pain he isn’t quick enough to bury darkening eyes. “How did you know I’d be able to keep them busy enough that they wouldn’t notice you?”

She can’t stand the way his features fall when he’s sad, how his shoulders slump and the corners of his mouth sag. She feels the way his hearts twist as acutely as a knife to her own chest. She hates the way the urge to make him smile comes as naturally as the tide, swelling and cresting like a wave reaching for the moon. So no matter how angry or hurt or confused she may be, it comes as no surprise to her when the corners of her lips quirk and she finds it in herself to tease, “I don’t have to know I’m your wife to know you’ve got a mouth that won’t quit.”

“River,” he grits through his teeth, unmoved by her deflection. “That was reckless, even for you. You should never have tried to take them on alone.”

She brushes away his concerns, her attention fixed elsewhere as she shrugs, “I knew you’d come after me.”

“How?" he breathes; and he sounds so tentative when he speaks, so genuine that she can’t help the way her eyes flutter shut before roaming back to his.

“Because that’s what I do, Doctor.” River lets out a long, mournful sigh, as if her enduring faith in him should be obvious, a constant that’s been hardwired into her soul.  “I trust you, beyond reason and without sense. Always.”

The admission thickens the air between them, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe she’s just forgotten how, because the way he’s watching her is certainly distracting enough to steal her breath. Those ancient eyes look eager and terrified, ruined and hopeful. He sways toward her and then away, filled to the brim with an emotion she can’t name. His fingers flex like he wants to be near her, but they hover by his sides like she’s something he doesn’t dare touch. He takes a tentative step toward her, eyeing her as if he fears she’ll burn him if he comes too close.

As she watches him dance around her as if she were fire, she can’t help but wonder if he’s been fighting that urge their whole lives.

She makes the decision for him, turning away and reaching for the scanner as a distraction. She can't look at him, can’t hold his heavy stare or pin point what she finds lurking there. Whatever it is, it frightens the life out of her. She feels like a little girl running from a spaceman again; and her eyes wander, looking anywhere but him. Somehow she manages to keep her feet planted, caught between Rule Seven and the child afraid of a space suit _._

_She’s perfectly still, back against the wall, hiding. Outside these four walls, lightning scars the night sky, brightening the dingy halls and casting an eerie glow on paint-stained walls. ‘Get Out’ is graffitied in bold, red letters and the voices of strangers fill her room, the only home she knows. A crack of thunder makes her jump and another wave of adrenaline bursts through her veins. Now’s her chance to run. Run from her childhood prison. Run from the woman with red hair that won't help her and voices she can't quite remember. Run from the nightmares. Always run when you’re scared._

River tampers down the urge for flight, the first lesson she ever learned and the hardest to forget. The Doctor is watching her, those curious eyes studying her like he means to read her mind. River’s jaw tightens in an attempt to bury the fears she promised to never let him see.

“You’re cross with me,” he observes softly, not a question, but an answer in and of itself.

River scoffs, the last traces of frivolity in her eyes replaced by anger and hurt. “What was your first clue?”

“River, I-“

“What, Doctor?!” she finally snaps, cutting him off before he can distract her with his silver tongue. The starkness of her tone makes him flinch like he thinks she means to slap him. She can’t say the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, that her palm doesn’t itch to leave its burning print on his cheek.

She wants to hurt him. She hates herself for it, but she does. She wants his eyes to sting the way hers do. She wants his cheeks to flush red and the word ‘why’ to dance behind his lips, to taste as bitter on his tongue as it does hers. Why did he come back just to make her watch him leave? Why did he put himself in her veins if he doesn’t want a place in her heart? Why must he look at her like she matters when they both know she’s only ever been an obligation?

“I have seen terrible things in my life and terrible things have been done to me,” she confesses, green eyes wet with unshed tears. “But you, _you_ really take the cake. After all this time, you still don’t trust me, do you? Was any of it real or did you only tell me your name because you had to? You had so many chances to tell me who you were, who I was and who you were to me. But you didn’t! Because you didn’t trust me with it or or… or _want_ it. And that’s fine. I can live with that, but what I can’t understand is why you felt the need to make me fall in love with you all over again. You say you wanted to give me a choice but when you're holding all the cards, how could you expect any less? When you have all the answers, how could I ever be drawn to anyone but you? When you use our past like a weapon how could I ever love anyone else?" She's fuming, flames licking at her insides and words lashing off her tongue like a whip. "What you did was selfish and vain and cruel, even for you. You took me to _Darillum_. Of all the cheap tricks, that wasn’t just low, that was conniving. So what, Doctor? What do you have to say for yourself?“

”I’m not sorry,” he admits boldly, completely unrepentant.

River huffs in disbelief. And, oh, she hates the tears that build behind her eyes, hot and angry and so very sad.  “Of course you’re not. Why would you be? You only manipulated and lied to me-”

In a moment, he closes the distance between them, his mouth descending on hers. River almost blanches at the sudden contact, her eyes bugging out in surprise as he silences her with a kiss. At first, her entire body tenses, hurt still scorching her skin and questions still spilling from the lips he now massages with his own. The large hands that frame her face feel cool against her flushed cheeks and the press of his body is so familiar that she can’t help but melt into him with a shaky sigh, her eyes fluttering shut.

Self preservation tells her that she should stop him, stop this before she gives in to hope. But the press of his mouth feels like home and the taste of his tongue as it probes at her lips is like honey. Even when she’s furious, she can’t resist him. She doesn’t understand why he’s kissing her, but she can’t bring herself to care. It could very well be the last one she gets. So against her better judgement, she gives in, opening her mouth to him and letting herself be putty in his hands. His gently probing tongue slides against hers and her insides flood with warmth.

It isn’t a moan, but a whimper that escapes her mouth. It’s a quiet sound, a secret, a question. He answers with a soft hum, the tip of his nose deliberately nuzzling hers as he presses tender kisses to her lips. It's different than how their lips usually clash. His kisses habitually attempting to swallow her whole, to consume her, drink her in like it’s the last time he'll ever feel the press of her skin.

This kiss is nothing like the last one when he pushed _his body against hers, pinning her to the rocks, the plasma around them sloshing as their bodies press together. There is only skin on skin and hungry mouths and curious hands and probing tongues and soft, low moans. Their movements are frantic, like they’ve both been dying to do this for ages, holding back, a dam that’s finally breaking free._

_She wants to drown in the way his hands slide across her skin, the way his tongue licks at her mouth like he’s trying to devour her, insistently pushing against her like he wants to take her right here, right now. His hand in her hair tugs her closer and his hips press her back into the rocks, pushing and pulling like he can’t get close enough, like time is running out and he needs to smash a thousand kisses into this one moment. Like he means to make up for lost time and there isn’t a second to waste._

This kiss is slow. It isn't searching or desperate. It is patient, the movements of a man whose already found everything he's ever searched for, discovered every truth worth knowing. Even angry, she can't help the way her hearts skip or halt the euphoria that comes from the way his tongue licks at the inside of her mouth. She can't stop her hands from sliding up his chest and around his neck. She can’t fight the press of his lips, not when he using them to confess his gratitude for her very existence.

When his mouth finally stills, he pulls away from her with a long, shaky sigh, his hot breath ghosting over her tingling lips. The hands cupping her face are light as they brush back her curls and River wills her eyes to open. She finds him staring into her in a way he never has before. There's a smile tugging at his cheeks, one that's both dusty and brand new, one he's had buried inside of him for eons but never been able to use, one he's been waiting for, saving for the perfect moment.

“You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that,” he speaks and his words are hardly a whisper, an echo of something she doesn’t dare name, some sentiment deep inside his soul.

River swallows, calming the hearts still beating out a tattoo in her chest. “That's all very sweet, but you can't just excuse what you did with a kiss.”

The Doctor’s lips part, a soft, pained chuckle slipping out around the words, “You misunderstand.” She barely hears him when he speaks, his voice still choked and something thick clinging to the back of his throat. But she feels his breath on her cheek, a caress as warm as memories and days tangled up in sheets. Her nails scrape gently across the nape of his neck, soft enough to go unnoticed but friction enough to prove to herself that he's real.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. Of course I am. But I learned so much about you, about _us_ and what we could be. You didn't hide from me and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. We were better than we've ever been and we can be that again." River opens her mouth to protest, knowing he's just being a dreamer, that his offer is too good to be true. But the Doctor doesn’t spare a breath for her skeptical thoughts, continuing his speech with even more fervor. "You showed me places I've never seen before. You trusted me in ways I never dreamed you would. And you're wrong about Darillium. I didn't take you there to manipulate you into falling for me all over again. I took you so I could give you everything I wish I could have given you the first time around.  We got to see the Singing Towers the way you deserved to see them; and I certainly didn’t keep things from you because I didn’t trust you. I was trying to give you a choice, River. I wanted you to choose me without the obligation of our timelines. I wasn’t withholding your past to be cruel. I was giving you an out.”

"I never asked for that."Her voice is weak, afraid it will break over the syllables or shatter the surrounding air. She knows he was giving her a choice, that he had the best intentions. He always does, but doesn't he understand that she'll always choose him, all of him, basking in his darkness as well as his light? "I never wanted a way out."

He smiles down at her like she is some precious artifact, something too divine to be real. "And you never would. But that doesn't mean you don't deserve the choice. River, everything those men said, all those awful things I put you through, there's truth to all of it."

"It doesn't matter," River sighs, sure and resolute, and the Doctor's hands bury deeper in her hair, pressing his forehead to hers.

"It does! It matters more than anything." His eyes search hers, one of his thumbs sliding down to brush over her cheek. "There were times where I genuinely didn't know if you wanted to remember me. I thought you'd be better off. I wouldn't have blamed you if you didn't want me. I've never understood why you do. I’ve never been good enough for you.”

"Sweetie," the endearment falls off her lips in an exasperated rush. "Your fears and chronic self-loathing don't justify keeping half my life from me."

"I know, but I couldn't risk you only staying with me because you felt obligated. Or worse, have you bolt because you felt like I'd shackled you with a life you didn't remember or want."

"Who says I wouldn't have wanted it?" River asks earnestly. Sure, he was right about one thing: River Song did not like being put in boxes and she certainly wouldn't stand for being told who and what she was by some madman with no proof to back up his claims. But he's a fool if for one moment he thought she wouldn't stick around to find out. Be it stubbornness or out of loyalty to her past, River Song will always fight for what's hers. "And you never know," she teases, offering a shrug and a small olive branch smile. “I might have stuck around just because you're pretty."

"Alright, maybe you would have," the Doctor chuckles, his hands falling from River’s face to trail down her arms. Both their eyes follow the movement, silently watching as his fingers gently entwine with hers. "But what about now? No more backwards timelines. No more secrets. Still choose me?”

He peaks up at her through the flop in his fringe, his thumb stroking over the sensitive skin of her wrist. He looks like a nervous school boy asking her to prom and for the life of her River can't understand why. She's never been shy about her affections, never thought twice about calling him darling or leaning in for a kiss goodnight. He's the one who's been running from her since the first day he met her, haunted by a forest without trees and the data ghosts he left behind. He’s the one who made a habit of flinching at the mention of Darillium and the title Professor like the words themselves would scorch him. He's the one who spent years forgetting. He's the one who, when the past finally caught up to him, his first instinct was to lie.

"Sweetie, I will _always_ choose you. That’s never really been the question, now, has it?"

His face shifts at her pained question, his expression morphing from nervous to grievous. His eyes bore into hers in a way that makes her itch. She wishes he would step back, stop looking at her like he's seeing her for the first time, stop reading her face in a way he was never able to before.

"River," he pauses, tongue sneaking out to lick his lips in that way he always does when he's anxious. “How much of your time in the Library do you remember?”

The question makes her jaw slacken, lips parting in surprise as her eyes break from his. Swallowing her fear, she answers, throat tight and tone guarded. “All of it, I think.”

“Trenzalore, when we…,” he starts, and the chill that shoots through her body is enough to tell him she remembers the encounter vividly. "You asked me if I loved you. Why?"

River gives a hollow laugh, and if her voice was any more intentionally light, she thinks her whole body might just float away like mist. "You'd never said it before. What's a girl to think?"

"You knew, though,” he questions, his grip on her hands tightening. River finds herself grateful for the gesture, the pressure of skin on skin tethering her in place. “Surely, you knew?"

“You never came for me,” she offers as answer, her soft confession heavy enough to make his hazel eyes crack. He looks so ancient, so weary, as he tracks the contours of her fragile smile.

“You've never needed me to rescue you before.” It's as much a defense as it is an apology and it spurs River’s too bold tongue to run away with her.

“Would it have killed you to try?”

“No,” he shakes his head, eyes downcast. “But it would have killed me to fail. As long as I never went back to that data core, I had hope. If I tried and failed you, _again_ , if there really was no way to save you... I wouldn't survive that, River. I'm selfish and I'll always be sorry for that. Even when I can see that I'm hurting you, even now, I'm too selfish to let you go.”

“I never wanted you to,” she insists, hands breaking from his to cup his face. His cheeks are sharp and his jaw is hard, tensing nervously beneath her palms. "Even when I didn't remember you, I wanted...," River sighs, eyes softening. "I’ve always hoped..."

"Hoped?" The Doctor cuts in, affronted. "Hoped what? That I love you?” His eyes scan her, confusion setting in as he takes a step back, letting her hands fall from his face. “You still don’t believe me, do you?"

Her fingers feel cold without the heat of his skin, her arms lost without the comfort of his embrace. She does her best to hide it, a tired smile plastered on her face as she shakes her head, curls falling over her eyes as she dismisses his concerns and buries the hole in her chest that still yearns to believe.

"My memories are back now, honey,” she says effortlessly. “You don’t have to humor me. I’m not some needy companion. I know you, Doctor. I know what you’re capable of and what you’re not. And romantic love, well, that’s never been a burden I would ever expect you to bear. I know you care, in your own way. Really, I do-“

“No, River. You don't.” His blunt words bite at the air, but it isn’t her he means to wound; it’s himself. Guilt swims behind his eyes and he’s never sounded so weary as when he says, “You don’t know at all. My fault, I know. I've never told you, so how could you possibly know how much you mean to me?”

“Doctor, you don’t have to-“

“Please,” he stops her, covering her hands with his and clutching them together like he's about to open a prayer. “Please, River. If you believe nothing else I say to you, please, believe this. The universe is vast and there aren't many things I know for certain, but I do know nothing is permanent, nothing lasts forever. Earth will crumble and the sun will expand and swallow it whole. The universe will expand and contract, explode and snap back into one tiny ball. I don't know why that's the way things are. I don't know why nature is compelled to create and destroy and bring together only to tear apart. I don’t know why the fabric of time saw fit to bring you into my life over and over again. I don't know what I did to deserve you. But I know that I love you. I feel it in my bones, in the very air that fills my lungs. I feel it when you're gone like a hole in my chest. I feel it when you smile like the sun warming my cheeks. And, above all else, I need you to know it too.

“Because I've had a glimpse of what we could be. I got to fall in love with you all over again. I’ll never be sorry for that, not for knowing you better, and certainly not for seeing you smile. You didn't hide from me, River. I saw sides of you I’ve never seen before. You let me hold your hand when you were upset. You let me help you when you were hurting. You showed me your caves. I've _seen_ how great we can be and been blinded by the parts of yourself you keep shrouded in darkness. And I’m telling you now, I want all of it, all of you, and I won't settle for anything less. That is, " he pauses, sheepish. "If you'll still have me?"

It feels like time is standing still, like reality is cracking around her and _he’s leaning into her ear to whisper, “Look into my eye.”_ It feels like the impossible is unfolding before her, like she’s _submerged in a pool of liquid energy, wrapped in the Doctor’s embrace. His hand is resting on her once wounded chest and the last of his regeneration energy is swirling around her like a sea of gold._ _His essence swims in her veins, breathing new life into her and willing her hearts to beat. Colors spin like_ _spiral galaxies behind his eyes and the smile_ _he gives her is more blinding than the sun. In this moment, she knows only one thing for certain: if heaven were real, it wouldn’t hold a candle to this._

She is lost for words, drained of declarations that would normally flood like spring rain. The sound of his voice rings in her ears, deafening her with confessions she never dreamed she’d hear. _“I love you,” he murmurs, and she isn’t sure what’s draining faster, his hope or her life. Or maybe the two are entwined, maybe if she holds tight to the sound of his voice the blackness encroaching her vision will recede._

_He loves her, she tells herself. But the words don't feel as heavy as they should. They don't mean as much as they ought to, not coming from a stranger. And yet, the way the air escapes his lungs like it’s the only breath worth breathing tells her that he means it. Urgent and desperate, soft and caring, he says those words like they belong to her, like it’s the only truth worth hearing._

_She lacks the strength to smile, but her lips twitch of their own accord, imagining what it must have felt like to be loved like that. Unconsciousness is tugging her in, the world around her fading. But his voice echoes in her ears. He loves her._

_But what’s more is, she loves him, too. And it’s these thoughts alone that keep her afloat as darkness threatens to pull her under._

“You told me you love me,” River finally manages, her voice croaking under the weight of words.

The Doctor merely, chuckles, “I do believe that was the general message, yes.”

“No,” River shakes her head, brow furrowing in annoyance. “Back at that abandoned base. And before that, in the TARDIS library, you told me _you loved me_.”

She shoves lightly at his chest and the Doctor coughs out a disbelieving noise. “Are you… are you angry with me for telling you how I feel?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” River scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m annoyed at your poor choice of timing. A century's worth of dates to choose from and you blurt it out when I can’t even appreciate what I’m hearing.”

She makes like she means to shove at him again, but the Doctor’s hand snakes up to capture hers, a smile curling his cheeks as he steps in closer to her. “Then I’ll say it again. And again. And again. Every minute of every day until you can’t hear my voice without remembering those words.” His hands settle on her hips, his nose nuzzling into the side of her cheek as he whispers, “I’ll say it till you’re sick of me.”

She turns into him, her hands resting on his chest and her lips brushing against his as she says, “I could never get sick of you.” The smell of his cologne and the heat of his mouth demand she close the rest of the distance between them, her hand winding up behind his neck and pulling him toward her.

Their mouths meet, brushing together with a patience that makes her tingle. It's like no kiss they've ever shared, no ticking clocks, no tangled timelines, no shackles to weigh them down, and no secrets to make the sweetness of his mouth seem bitter. He tastes only of promise, the insistent flick of his tongue against hers an invitation. For once, their futures stretch onward in the same direction. River deepens the kiss, pressing her body against his as her mind floods with possibility and urgency to discover all the glorious ways they can count down their forever.

When they part, her hearts feel lighter than they have in years. The pull between them stronger than ever before, like they are bound by forces greater than foreknowledge and the tangle of time. His gaze is boring into her with more passion and joy than she ever knew he was capable. His hazel eyes are unclouded by guilt and restraint, his smile no longer weighed down at the edges by the weight of a past he couldn’t change. They are no longer hindered by spoilers and she understands now that she had it all wrong before. It wasn’t fear and dread she found in his eyes. The look she didn’t dare name is anxious excitement, an eagerness for what’s to come, for adventure like they've never known.

She'd always seen it, the sparkle in his eyes he’d been holding back, sentiments he’d been afraid to let himself feel. Now the windows to his soul shine with possibility, with uncharted maps and limitless days stretched out before them. The Doctor’s eyes drop to her lips and River realizes she's smiling. Hope is blossoming inside of her, the joy of second chances humming in her bones.

“Is that a yes, then?” he asks with a grin. “You’ll have me?”

“No, you idiot,” she chuckles, the nails scratching at the nape of his neck sliding down to stroke his face. “That’s better than a yes. That’s an always.”

His face lights up like a child on Christmas day, his eyes burning bright as he says, “And what shall we do now, wife? How shall we spend the first day of the rest of our lives?"

A smirk crawls its way up River’s cheeks, something devious shining in the green of her eyes. Her hands slip beneath his jacket, fingers wrapping around one of his braces. "Well, if I remember correctly," she pulls back on the fabric, releasing it with a snap. "There's a bed I wouldn't mind getting reacquainted with."

The Doctor quirks a nonexistent brow, "Just the bed, or would you like some company?"

“Come if you like," River purrs, taking a step back and dancing away from him. "If you think you can make it worth my while."

A indulgent grin steals over him, a playful glint darkening his eyes. "I think you’ll find I have it on very good authority that I'm wonderful at bedtime stories.”

River continues to back her way down the hall, the Doctor following after, drawn to her by some invisible force. She watches him with dark eyes and a tingle stirring in her belly. He's walked with her through these halls before, danced with her on mountain tops, and chased her across time and space more often than she can count. But the certainty that this time he does it of his own free will is a comfort she never thought she’d know. It makes the sensation inside her all too familiar and somehow entirely brand new.

Her back finds their bedroom door, her spine pliant against the hard, wooden surface as her sweetie stops before her, meeting her toe to toe and nose to nose. "Then tell me a story, Doctor," she breathes, and the soft smile that blooms across his face tells her he knows exactly what she means. It's not just any fairytale she wants; it's theirs, with all its frayed edges and fractured pages. She wants to hear their story spoken in all the ways their scattered timelines never allowed it to be told before.

The Doctor leans in, his palms framing her face and a quiet promise hanging from his lips. "I'll make it a good one," he whispers.

And when his mouth meets hers, he kisses her in a way she'll never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget, for those who want smut, stay tuned! I plan to have it up some time next week.


	22. Make the Most of the Minutes and Love with No Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M FOR SEXUAL CONTENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is the obligatory smutty conclusion. It's not too terribly explicit (I don't think so anyway). But if you are not looking for adult content, this chapter is probably not for you. 
> 
> Thanks again readers! It's been an amazing journey and I couldn't have done it without all your feedback! :) especially Cassie, without her relentless nagging and encouragment this chapter would have taken twice as long as it already did.

"We have all the time in the world. Time enough for life to unfold all the precious things love has in store.”- Louis Armstrong

 

* * *

 

It isn’t lust that guides them into the bedroom, not to say the hand on her hip isn’t heavy with promise or the way his mouth moves against hers doesn’t make her tingle down in her toes. They are drawn to the room by want of discovery, to uncover and explore each other in all the ways they never could.

The longer her tongue sweeps against his own, the sweeter he tastes. He's different from the man she knew. He's lighter, happier, carefree, as he fumbles with the door handle like he's forgotten his hands have uses apart from touching her.

River feels different, too. She isn’t greedy with her kisses. Her fingers don't itch with the need to claw down his back, to mark and brand him. Her teeth don't beg to sink into the soft flesh of his neck, a plea to stay and punishment for impending departure. She doesn’t have to take what she can get before it expires. Their love is no longer on a deadline.

Instead, she kisses him through grinning lips as she attempts to help his cause. Their fingers wrap around the cool metal and twist, pushing against the barrier. The wooden obstacle has grown stubborn and stiff from disuse. With a soft, mournful groan, the Doctor removes his hand from her hip to press against the door. River shifts her hips forward, fleetingly brushing against him before using her bum to thump back against the obstacle. The final shove is enough to make the door give way, springing open as they stumble gracelessly into the room.

A rush of familiar air surrounds her like sinking into warm water, wafts of his aftershave swirling around spritz of her perfume. The aroma of biscuits and timeworn books fills empty spaces, old memories stirred up like dust as they clamber across the carpeted floor. Their lips never part, little pecks and curious nibbles interspersed between giggles and snorts as they aimlessly search for the bed. They are patient in their endeavor, never hurried or rushed.

Their shoes are disposed of first, stepping out of them or haphazardly kicking them off to the side as they stagger though the dimly lit room. River runs lazy hands over his chest and abdomen, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt and tugging until it hangs loosely around his waist. The Doctor repays the favor, fingers that had been tracing sweet nothings into her lower back now fisting around the hem of her top.

Even as they break the kiss, River takes no notice of the room around them. She counts the colors lurking in his hazel eyes. Pools of brown and streaks of blue and flashes of yellow, the depths of his irises more magnetic than the pull of a black hole, engulfing, consuming. His gaze pierces her like stars in a moonless sky. His smile as humble as a lone ship lost to the vastness of the sea. Where once such scrutiny would have made her feel vulnerable and lacking, as if he were searching for something she did not possess, now she only feels accepted, loved, whole.

He hauls her shirt up, meaning to pull it over her head, but it catches just above her eyes, blindfolding her. Arms raised and tangled in cloth, he continues to kiss her. She is both trapped and safer than she has ever been, his arms sliding down her back to cradle her to him. His mechanic’s hands have become calloused from nights spent beneath the TARDIS console; but those fingers have learned grace, too, the pressure of his palms gentle and insistent as he pulls her ever closer.

There is nothing but leisure and ease in the way he kisses her, taking advantage of her blindfolded state, using flicks of his tongue as bait to lure her in. His mouth continues to tease her, a throaty hum of amusement escaping him every time she chases the pressure of his lips. Eventually, his smug mouth gets too close; and when he does, River surges forward, capturing his bottom lip between her teeth. Letting out a low, triumphant chuckle, she drags the tender flesh between her teeth.

The back of River’s knees find the bed just as the Doctor leans in to steal a kiss, the sudden stop combined with the Doctor’s eager advance causing the pair to lose balance, their bodies careening backwards as a muffled squeak escapes River’s lips. He lands atop her, the weight of him more warm and secure than any blanket, his grin against her cheek more comforting than a hot beverage on a cool day. The graceless way he wiggles to free himself more endearing than any romantic poem. Oh, how she's missed him, all of him, right down to his goofy grins and fumbling limbs.

When he sits up to right himself, the absence of him leaves her abnormally cold. So she chases him like summer does the spring, leaning forward to free herself from her shirt and toss it to the floor. Her nimble fingers reach for him, about to make short work of his vest when she notices his eyes are no longer fixed on her. Her diary lies next to her on the bed, where it must have slipped from her pocket when they landed. His eyes are locked on the blue leather like he's witnessed something holy fall from grace. The Doctor scoops it up, the gentle hands that had held her now tracing reverently over the worn cover.

The sight of it makes River’s hearts flutter out of her chest, lodging in the back of her throat. For all the shackles their back to front lives placed on them, there was safety to be found in the web they weaved. She knew what to expect from him and where she stood. She became accustomed to just passing through. And now that the strings have been cut, this weightless freedom feels a bit like falling.

Wave after wave of thoughts flood her mind, haphazard and chaotic. She wonders if she'll catch him sneaking peaks in that foreboding blue book. Will he curl up with it from time to time and bask in the frayed pages that once frightened him? Will he expect her to travel with him now? Will he play house husband while she grades papers? Will he come to her lectures or shag her up against her office desk? When they fight, will he still overcompensate with his apologies? Will he buy her every flower in the nearest shop and come up with bigger, grander gestures, each one more remarkable than the last? Will he still want to whisk her away to far off places? Will he still show up on her doorstep with haircuts and fancy suits? Will he park his TARDIS in her flower bed and hog the covers when he sleeps? What will time make of them now, when they can no longer wear spoilers like armor? A whole linear future is laid out before them and it’s more terrifying than any Dalek fleet or Cyber legion.

He must hear her thoughts or read her worries in the way her hands shake because his mouth finds hers once again. And the pressure of his lips is so sure and persistent that all her doubts disappear. The worries congealing in her chest melt like warm butter, dripping down her insides and coating her with something new. The feeling swells between her hearts, burning the muscles and scorching her bones, and in this moment, she knows what it feels like to be loved so much it hurts.

There's a dash of hesitance in his smile and relief in his shaky exhale that says he still can't believe he gets to do this, that's she's really here. She kisses him harder, ensuring that neither of them will ever have cause to doubt again.

The need for air is the only thing that bids them to part, their heavy breaths panting as he says, “I never thought we’d have this. Even after I found you again, I never thought you’d want it.”

“What’s not to want?” she asks with baited, earnest breath, her hands coming up to stroke across his cheeks.

His eyes flash with a sadness she thought had been banished the moment they stumbled behind closed doors. And yet, as he leans away from her once more to place her diary on the bedside table, the tone of his voice tells her he’s asking for forgiveness he doesn’t think he deserves. "I’ve never been fair to you, never been good enough.”

Rebuttal is hot on her tongue, but the Doctor is quicker, quieting her protests with a truth she never thought she’d hear.

“The pictures in your home and office,” he sighs, settling on his knees, his eyes skirting over her features like she’s a map he means to memorize. “All those people I don’t know and places we’ve never seen together, all those things in front of me that I never stopped to see, all those sides of you I left undiscovered. It was precious time wasted. I’ll do better this time.”

River’s face softens, a tension she hadn’t realized she held escaping her body in one heavy exhalation. “Then prove it.”

His gaze narrows on her soft, playful smile, a joyous infection lifting the corners of his own lips. River arches an impatient brow and he’s on her in a moment, practically pouncing on her as he pushes her back into the mattress. His lips descend on her, speckling kisses across her face, cheeks, and eyes until River swats at him, delight bubbling out of her throat in a sound she’ll never admit is a giggle.

She takes to stroking her hands along his forearms and biceps. They are wiry and lithe and the fabric of his shirt catches against her lightly calloused hands. Her nails dig into the cloth, willing it away, yearning for the feel of his soft, creamy skin and the flexing muscles beneath. The Doctor continues his assault, but his advances slow, peppering lingering kisses to her brows, the tip of her nose, and down the line of her jaw. His nose brushes against her cheek and River suppresses another giddy noise, goosebumps pricking her skin. His lips further their exploration, dropping to her neck and sucking lightly on her pulse point. River hums, the laughter hidden in the back of her throat hinging on the brink of a low moan. The noise encourages him, his teeth nibbling at her ear as his fingers drop to toy with the hem of her trousers. River arches in encouragement, lifting her hips up and into his hands.

“I came straight here, you know," he whispers into her throat, undoing the button of her jeans. “After dropping you off at the base, I was eager to get to you, to not let you get away again. I was so sure that...” he pauses and she can feel the way his brow pinches, how he inhales the scent of her hair like it might give him strength. “I thought you'd never-"

He lets out a long sigh, but River remains quiet, observing him carefully as he sits back up on his knees. She doesn’t follow him this time. She lets him look at her, watches as his eyes burn across her skin. They follow the sharp line of the collarbone, the gentle swell of her breasts. They skip across her ribs, down to her navel. She tracks his tongue as it snakes out across his lips like a starving predator.

His head dips, planting a wet kiss just above her hip bone as one of his hands cups her clothed breast. And if she thought his gaze was burning, then his touch is an inferno. Even through her bra, she pebbles under his palm instantly, the hardened nipple reaching out for more, begging for his touch. He obliges her with a soft squeeze. It's nowhere near as rough as she normally likes, but tonight isn't about bruised skin and sloppy kisses. Tonight is testimony of the time laid out before them. Tonight is tender. Tonight is patient. His mouth finds her other breast, pressing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses through the lacy fabric. The dampened cloth brushes her skin, still warm from the heat of his breath. River finds herself arching under the intimate touch, that familiar flame in her belly finally taking spark.

He stokes the fire, each breath against her skin fanning the flames until there is heat licking her insides. He takes his time exploring her, mouth lingering in the valley between her breasts,  hands trailing over her naked skin, sliding over the bumps of her ribs, exploring the curve of her waist and flare of her hips. Those long fingers tickle across her belly, delighting in the way her muscles clench in anticipation. They curl under her waistband, all patience and promise, sliding her trousers and knickers down her legs in one smooth motion.

Her clothing puddles on the floor and no sooner are his hands on her body again. Fingers dragging along her calves and the sensitive dip in her knee, up the outside of her thighs and back down the tops. It’s reverent, like she is some angelic thing; but the feeling spreading within her is anything but innocent. It is wanton and needy and born of somewhere deep inside her, somewhere primal that demands to be sated.

It’s been too long since she's been touched by him, felt the weight of his body on hers, reveled in the heat of his mouth ghosting over secret places, writhed under the hunger in his eyes, moaned and gasped out her pleasure as he buried himself inside her.

But he’s never touched her like this. No one has. His hands on her are more than want and need. They echo his confessions, tender and heart felt. He isn’t just ravishing her. He is making good on his promise, exploring her, making sure that no inch of her goes undiscovered. From now on it will always be like this, the slow tick of infinity around them and nothing to keep them apart spare the hot breath expelled from their lungs.

The Doctor places a chaste kiss to her inner thigh and River gives an involuntary shiver, her legs falling open in invitation. Her skin chills at the fresh burst of cool air, but the hands he splays across her body are warm. He gazes up at her from between her legs and those hazel eyes are staring at her in a way she’s never seen. He's never looked at her this way before, without a terrible secret shadowing his eyes, like he’s never seen her so clearly. She is practically bare beneath him while he is still fully clothed. And yet, as his voice shakes over words that have never been said, she can't help but wonder which one of them is truly naked.

"When you insisted on handling it alone," he whispers into the skin of her inner thigh, two fingers crawling up to stroke over her core. River’s eyes flutter shut at the soft touch, the sound of his voice the only thing tying her to sanity. "I thought you were giving me the slip. I wasn't sure you'd bother with me after you got your memories back."

His fingers continue to stroke her, sliding around that little bundle of nerves until it's begging for his attention. His slow, repetitive motions fill her body with the same tension he must have felt these past few weeks, strung taut just hoping for the slightest touch, arching into every passing movement, eager for contact.

"After you remembered all the things I've put you through..." His fingers stall and River barely bites back a whimper. The Doctor takes in a deep breath of air, as if drinking in the smell of her skin will fill his lungs with the right words to say. "I wasn’t sure that you’d want me now that predestination didn’t dictate it."

Lost in a haze of confession and touch, it takes a moment for his honesty to wake her, for the roar in her belly to settle at a simmer. It’s only when the lust dwindles that she realizes he thought she wasn’t coming back, that she wouldn't want him now that she was free of some preconceived obligation. The idiot, it's never been about that. She still can't fathom it, that for even a moment he would doubt her want to choose him. But he had. It seems all along they'd shared the same fear.

Like gravity, she is pulled to him. River sits up and the Doctor’s hands fall from her instantly, his worried eyes fixed on her as if he’s done something wrong. She soothes him with a smile, one hand brushing over his cheek as she mirrors his kneeled position. As River’s hands fall to his chest, the Doctor sits back on his heels, surrendering to the soft press of her palms. He lets her have her turn, stripping him, exposing inch by inch of his pale skin.

Her hands are just as reverent and gentle as his as they pluck at the buttons of his vest. She puts his mind at ease, sharing memories that had always comforted her in dark moments.

“Calderon Beta,” she says quietly, hearts fluttering as if she were imparting some grand secret. “Boring. Planet of the chip shops.” There’s a smile hiding in her green eyes as they momentarily catch his. He’s smiling, too, puzzled and amused as he listens to her recount his own words. “But there is a four hundred foot tree growing out of a clifftop on the north side of a mountain in the middle of the sea. And if you take the lift to the top and look up, at exactly twelve minutes past midnight on the 21st of September, 2360, you can see more stars in one sky than at any other moment in the history of the universe.” She pauses, undoing the last of his buttons and sliding the material off his shoulders. “It’s like daylight, only magic.”

A nostalgic smile tugs at his lips. “You could read a book by it.”

She moves her attentions to his bowtie next. It’s as silky as the day he wrapped it around her wrist, and she finds herself unable to completely swallow back the lump in her throat. “You didn’t have to come for me that night. Timelines were fixed and the demands of history had been sated. You knew I’d keep your secret and that those prison bars would never hold me for long. You could have left me there, guilt free. We could have just gone our separate ways. But you didn’t.”

Both their eyes are fixed on her movements, hypnotized as she wraps the material around the palm of her right hand.

“You swooped in with a fancy white suit and a promise to show me the stars,” River continues, fighting the way her cheeks threaten to flush crimson. “I never expected you’d… I never _dreamed_ you’d honor that ceremony, that it actually meant something to you.”

The Doctor’s chest swells, jaw dropping like he means to speak. River silences him with a meaningful look. It’s her turn to bare her soul.

“I know what you’re like with marriages,” she laughs lightly, fingers now working their magic on the buttons of his shirt. “It’s practically a pastime for you. Why would ours be any different? And then you stole me away and told me I’d never, ever change. And what’s more is, you looked at me like you never wanted me to, like you wanted me with wild hair and prison sweats and combat boots for the rest of our lives. You took me, just me, to see a sky full of a million stars. Just one place to see it, one time, one chance, and you chose me. I knew right then that I meant more to you than just fulfilling a timeline.”

His arms hang limp at his sides, his eyes fixed on her like he’s forgotten how to do anything else, how to move or breathe or think. All he knows is the sound of her voice as it fills the empty air around them. His shirt undone, she slides her palms up the flat pane of his stomach and chest, fingers dragging over the sharp line of his collarbone before draping over his shoulders and ridding him of his top.

"It didn’t matter if I married you or murdered you.” Her nails graze teasingly over his pecs and abdomen as she makes her way back down his now bare torso. He is hot to the touch and goosebumps pebble his skin in the wake of her fingers. When she gets to his waistband, her nails toy and tease around the sensitive skin of his belly, scratching at his hip bones until one of the Doctor’s hands remembers how to move, burying itself in her hair to cup the side of her face. “Sod fate,” River declares with a smile. “I've never been one for prophecy. I make my own destiny and I chose you every step of the way. You've given me more good days than I can fathom, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything."

His grip in her hair tightens in agreement. Whether he's encouraging her words or the clever way her nails swirl filthy High Gallifreyan into his skin, she can't be sure.

She carries on with both, her fingertips plucking at the button of his trousers as she coos, "Remember that time we spent a week stranded in the Arborian Forest?"

His abdomen tenses just at the thought and a grin steals its way across River’s cheeks. Emboldened, she continues her descriptive tale, a single finger nail scrapping across the zip until she feels him twitch through the fabric.

"When you accidentally ate those aphrodisiac berries?” she reminds him, a throaty, positively wicked laugh rolling out of her lips as she says, “You were practically insatiable.”

“Well, it didn’t help that you kept skinny dipping in the creek. Bloody exhibitionist.”

For his cheek, River cups him none too gently through his trousers, causing the Doctor to squeak as she leans in close to purr, “I don’t recall any complaints from you at the time. In fact, I remember quite a bit of begging.”

Her lips brush tauntingly against his, and as she pulls away, the Doctor follows fruitlessly after. He whines slightly, but River only encourages the pout on that handsome baby face by slipping her hand down beneath his waistline and running her fingers over every inch of him except the places he wants her most.

“ _’Oh, please, River,’_ ” she coos, only slightly mocking as she repeats the desperate pleas he’d given her in that forest. “ _’I need you, River. Your mouth, your hand, **anything** , just please. Let me feel you.'"_

The Doctor gives a whimper that hinges on a moan, memory and need willing his other hand to find a bruising grip on River’s hip. Her hands retaliate by reaching around to grab a fistful of his bum. The action causes his hips give an involuntary little thrust, and River smirks to see it.

“I need you _now_ ,” he growls in her ear, and River takes mercy on him, popping open the button of his trousers and dragging the zip slowly downward. A sigh of shaky relief floods from his lungs and River leans into it, dropping kisses to his jaw.

"You made me scream my throat raw,” she breathes, letting her confession ghost across his neck. "I couldn't speak above a whisper for days."

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing, begging her teeth to sink into that sensitive flesh. She licks at his pulse point instead, tasting his sweat slicked skin as she pushes his trousers and pants down his slender hips. Lower and lower they slide, freeing him from the cloth prison. His cock springs to attention and River’s mouth waters to see it, hard and proud and eager, all for her.

“I must admit,” she hums, a dark little chuckle that means nothing but trouble slipping out from between her lips, the sound of it making Doctor shudder. “I did admire your enthusiasm.” She tears her hungry stare from his erection and meets his eyes, something wicked hiding behind her Cheshire Cat smile. “And after a week of non-stop shagging, well, I’ve never been so satisfied.”

Her hands find their way to his shoulders, wrapping around them and toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. He must take her statement as a challenge because the Doctor’s eyes are lidded and dark as his fingers graze up and down River’s side, dancing along the exact spot where he knows she's ticklish.

"Let's see if we can do something about that." The words rumble out of his mouth in a low, gruff voice, making River squirm in a way that has nothing to do his teasing fingers. His lips find her neck, sucking lightly as his hands reach around to unclasp her bra. Those same fingers slide up her shoulders, wrapping around the strap and sliding the material down her arms. He tosses the garment away, mouth leaving a trail of wet kisses across the curve of her neck and shoulder.

The violet veins that track beneath her skin have all but faded now. The Doctor’s lips seek them out anyway, his tongue darting out to run along the paths they carve as if he could will the marks away with soft, loving licks. He pays the same aching attention to her collar bone, teeth grazing across the protruding lines until he finds the hollow of her throat. He nips at her there, just enough to feel the pressure of his teeth, to make her breath catch before he continues his path down her sternum. The skin there tingles like it remembers him, the healed cells calling to his mouth and tongue.

River tilts her head back, a low moan trapped behind sealed lips. She should be cross at him for giving her the last of his energy. And yet, she can't help the way her thoughts flutter back to Berlin, _his body sprawled out across the marble floor, her fault, her actions that led to this. And yet, he offers only forgiveness and opportunity. He spins possibilities of free will, of a future where he knows her as more than a pawn in someone else's game. She wants that. She wants River Song and the Doctor and the days that could be. She wants a second chance. She wants him to breathe again. She wants her lives to be what puts air back in his lungs and life in his eyes._

How can she blame him for wanting what she did, a second chance?

"Can I tell you something?” he asks, lingering over the skin there. River hums, both in regard to his question and the way his fingers skirt along her chest, making torturous circles around her nipples. She pebbles under his ministrations, arching into his barely there touch. It's only when he stops to cup the delicate flesh, lightly kneading each breast that she notices his hands are shaking. "I’ve never been more terrified than when you sided with those mercenaries. When you said you didn’t want your memories, I thought that was my worst fear realized."

River’s hands card through his hair, pushing back his floppy locks as she smiles down at him, warm and sweet. "There's no need to be afraid."

"Oh, River," a light puff of laughter escapes his lips, warming the valley between her breasts. His eyes lift to find hers, vulnerable and dark with need as he says, "You terrify me, now more than ever. I’ve always been waiting for the bottom to drop, always half expecting you to realize you’re too good for me. But when they shot you, when your hearts stopped..." His voice fails him, brow pinching as he buries his face in her chest, seeking strength in the cushion of her breasts. " _That_ was my worst fear realized. To have you back, to have you alive only to watch you die again, I wouldn’t survive it.”

The first swells of moisture mist in her eyes and River’s nails dig into his scalp. His head dips downward, counting her rib bones with kisses and tracing the curve of her pelvis with his tongue, his hands smoothing up and down her back and bum and thighs.

She doesn't miss the way he kisses her like she's glass, a menagerie of hopes and dreams and a future he's always wanted. She sees so much more than she used to. She sees that he wanted vengeance against those mercenaries, not because of the crimes they committed against him, but because of what they did to her. They tried to take _her_ from him. They stopped the hearts beating in her chest, the only things belonging to him that matter. She sees that he avoided her Professor days like the plague, not because he was bored of her, but because hearing her say the title must have felt like digging her grave.

She's feels nothing but pity for him, her heart sick from the burden he had to bear. She is humbled and awed by him, by the strength it must have taken him to know her, to love her, to give his hearts to her, all the while knowing she was something he could never keep. How much must it have hurt to watch her live while all along he knew exactly how she would die?

She sees now that his younger selves pushed her away as an act self-preservation. She realizes it was not age that made his older versions shy away, it was the burden of knowledge and the impending toll of a bell she could not hear.

She sees that his anger at her for taking on those mercenaries alone hadn't stemmed from lack of faith or doubt. It wasn't that he didn't trust her; he only feared for her safety because now, losing her is an option more real than ever before. He feared she would slip through his fingers before they even had the chance to properly touch.

That thought alone spurs her need to be closer to him. Fingers curling tightly into his hair, River drags him to her for an urgent kiss, her needy mouth claiming his. Her sudden eagerness makes him gasp, sucking in a sharp breath before wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her like he wants to burrow into her bones, like he's been waiting for the snap of her fingers that gave him permission to devour her whole.

His tongue probes at her mouth like he can learn her from the inside out, discover her all over again. One of his clever hands drops to her backside, hauling her hips into his. His naked body is warm against hers, all soft skin, sharp edges, and racing hearts. His arousal is pressed into her thigh and River cants her hips, desperate for friction. The Doctor gladly obliges, giving her bum a final squeeze before dragging his hand away. His fingers follow the curve of her hip, dancing over the sensitive skin of her belly. His mouth is hungry against hers, nipping and licking at her lips and tongue like he’ll never be sated.

Though his mouth burns with need, his fingers are agonizingly slow in their pursuit to travel down, down, down. When he reaches the curls between her thighs, River moans openly, nearly undone by the simple touch. His fingers slide against her, slickened by the moisture there. The silky feel of it rips a moan from the back of the Doctor’s throat, his hips rutting against her of their own needy accord. River retaliates by thrusting against his hand, wanton and insistent. The Doctor takes the hint, gladly plunging two fingers deep inside her.

River breaks away from their heated kiss, gasping at the delicious intrusion. His fingers stretch and fill her, sending a wave of warmth that tingles from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes. He works his fingers exactly how she likes, rough and fast and relentless, until she is panting and keening and burying her face in his neck. Sparks explode behind her eyes with every curl of his fingers, and River basks in the pleasure that ripples throughout her body in waves.

“God, _sweetie_ ,” River moans, the endearment hitching in her throat as her nails dig into his skin. He nips at her, knowing exactly what she needs, the sharp pain of it tying her to the here and now as his fingers work her up up _up._ Her teeth sink into his shoulder, marking him, and the Doctor groans, fingers picking up their pace.

“I missed hearing you say that," he pants against her cheek. The fingers of his other hand thread through her hair, tangling in her tousled curls. The dull pain only makes her senses sharper as he tugs lightly, just enough to make her chin tilt back, exposing her throat. “I missed hearing you moan my name like it was sin itself. I missed making you call out to deities you don’t believe in.” His ragged breath against her ear is primal, his voice wicked and filthy and raw with desperation. “Will you say it for me again, River? Can I hear how much you missed the way my fingers move inside you?”

She means to speak, to answer him with a string of swears that would make a sailor blush. She means to shout her appreciation for his talented tongue and relentlessly probing fingers, to make his insides coil and cock twitch with all the plans she has for that wicked mouth for his. She means to tell him things that will make his toes curl, but the only sounds that leave her mouth are whimpers. Choked and needy and breathless as half-formed demands and desires crawl their way up from her core.

He rewards her by pressing his thumb to her clit, making small, circular motions. River’s knees begin to shake, her inner walls helpless but to clamp around his fingers, drawing him deeper. Swears tumble from her lips and her insides quiver, her vision going black at the edges because, god, it feels so _good_. She traps herself there, locked in the haze of pleasure that proceeds glorious release. She holds herself here because she does not want to come like this. When she finally topples over, she wants it to be with more than his fingers thrusting inside her. She wants his hands in her hair and his cock buried deep inside her core so he can feel how he makes her clench and spasm and writhe. She wants his mouth on hers when he finally makes her scream.

When she can take no more, River tightens her grip on his shoulders and collapses back onto the mattress, bringing him with her. His hands fly out to catch them, bracing himself as he lands on top of her. River wastes no time in wrapping her legs around his hips, one of her hands snaking down between their bodies to wrap around his length.

His double pulse throbs under her palm and the Doctor moans at the contact, his face contorting with pleasure as she strokes him. He is heavy and smooth, warm and hard, twitching and eager, and the feel of him in her hand makes her body sing, insides clenching in anticipation. She pumps him once, twice, three times, delighting in the way he hisses at her in warning. She wants him to feel like she feels, like he's teetering on the brink of pleasure and even the lightest breeze will send him toppling over. She wants him as desperate and wanton she is.

River pumps him again, twisting her wrist _just so_ as her thumb swipes over his sensitive tip. The strangled groan on his lips and the spasm of his hips tells her he's already there, already aching for her. Before she can tease him further, the Doctor captures her wrist, guiding it up and pressing it into the mattress by her head. There’s no need for ropes and handcuffs tonight. He holds her still with his eyes alone. There is no need to move or breathe or think because for once there is nothing in the universe to make them part. Finally, they have all the time in the world.

“River,” he says, pressing his forehead to hers and shutting his eyes. Her name rolls off his tongue like he's praying, asking and thanking and hoping. “I love you.”

The words wash over her skin in a whisper and, oh, this is the time that matters, the one she'll always remember. Tears pool in the corners of River’s eyes because it’s so easy to believe him this time around. She remembers their first breakfast, as they sat in her home and he told her about a husband that loved her more than anything. She remembers sitting atop the TARDIS while he spoke of the woman that got away, of how she was funny and brilliant and stunning, how she was fierce and determined and dangerous, but somehow still patient and kind. She remembers how effortlessly he admitted to loving her, how he promised to tell her if ever he got the chance. She remembers how his eyes burned and his entire face lit up, all without ever saying her name.

She wants to tell him that she _believed_ him, that he was capable of that much love. She wants to tell him how a part of her had hoped, even then, that it was her he spoke of. She wants to tell him that she loves him, too, more than life, more than air, more than any living thing in the universe.

“Doctor, I-“ River tries to speak but his lips find hers, kissing her quiet.

It’s a quick kiss, soft and fleeting. When he pulls away, the weight of his heavy stare asks her not to speak, to hold her tongue. No words. They don't need them. They only get in the way.

River speaks without the use of her clumsy tongue, employing her mind instead. She opens her thoughts to him, an invitation he eagerly accepts. The most basic layers of consciousness brushes together first, little more than colors and complex emotions. His thoughts and memories come in waves of ambers and blues while hers swell in greens and crest in purples, minds ebbing and flowing as they meet again for a slow and steady kiss. Their tongues entwine, mouths moving in a way that begs no questions, no secrets, no spoilers. There are no burdens or boundaries or borders. There is only now, this moment, and the way his body aligns perfectly with hers.

Her hands snake up from where he'd placed them by her head to slide along his back, squeezing and scratching and stroking every inch of him she can reach. He tenses under her teasing hands, his tongue sweeping through her mouth insistently as his thoughts probe deeper into her mind. She yields to him in every way, her mouth eager to suck and lick at his tongue as the barriers of her mind fall like dominoes, one by one opening doors that have never been torn down before.

_He's a remarkably good dancer, especially for one so clumsy. She wonders if what he said was really true. Was she the one to teach him how to dance? He seems a natural, gliding her across the cavern floor as effortlessly as breathing. For all his hard lines and sharp edges, his movements aren't stiff at all. He is fluid and gentle, guiding her body as if it were an extension of his own. As they move, he voicelessly mouths along with the lyrics, his lips twitching upward like he possesses a secret she once used to share._

_It occurs to her that maybe his secret is that he doesn't actually know how to dance at all. Maybe he just knows how to dance with **her**. Maybe it’s less skill and more habit. Maybe his hand found the perfect place at the small of her back so easily because it's rested there a thousand times before. _

_He's a natural at touching her, there's no denying that, one hand on her back and the other molded perfectly around her palm. Their hips aligned as they sway slowly back and forth in the flickering lightning. The flat pane of his chest inviting her hand to rest upon it. The smoldering look in his eyes as he dips her just a fraction longer than necessary._

_There's no denying the reaction her body has to him either, like it knows the feel of him, welcomes the press of his skin. Her muscles seem to have a mind of their own, hearts fluttering when he pulls her to him. Her eyes lingering on the crook of his shoulder, wondering if there was ever a time she rested her cheek there. She can't help but notice the sharp line of his jaw, how it makes her lips tingle like they remember the prick of the stubble that shadows his cheeks. She watches his throat bob as he swallows and finds herself captivated by the fabric he always wears there. The crookedness of it makes her smile, a familiar warmth she can't explain taking over her chest as her fingers strain toward it, longing to straighten his bow tie._

The memory makes his breath go ragged, mouth breaking from hers to drink in air. He rests the side of his temple against hers and a wave of emotions ripple through her, _hope, elation, nostalgia,_ all coursing through her at once. They’re _his_ , she realizes, his from that same moment, when she’d felt compelled to stroke her hand across the silk at his throat, drawn to it, effortlessly falling into habits from another life. When they'd danced in her caves and been made dizzy from more than just their spinning feet.

It feels like a flood gate has been opened as his mind continues to fill hers, exploring and plunging into all the dark corners and recesses he'd never been able to touch before. It tingles like Pop Rocks only better, little sparks of electrical current, crackling and caressing her subconscious.

He touches his lips to her neck in an open-mouthed kiss and River tingles in another manner entirely. He must feel it, the ripple of lust that curls all the way down to her toes. Mouth still working her neck, leaving love bites and a trail of wet kisses, he shifts his hips. It's enough to make the length of him known, sliding up and down her slick folds. Her legs clamp around him as he continues to tease her clit, the head of him prodding at her entrance with soft torturous thrusts that never seem to penetrate her. Teasing her with the prospect of fullness, with the pleasure that's to come, but never giving her what she wants.

It's the only part of her that's not filled by him, the place she aches for him the most. She wants, no she _needs_ him, and her legs tighten their hold, heels digging into his bum in hopes of spurring him on. His breath is hot on her cheek, whispering Gallifreyan words for _forever_ and _mine_ and _complete_ into her ear. His mind fills hers, every corner, deeper than ever before, until she finds herself canting up into hips that refuse to give her what she wants. The Doctor seems intent to torture her, to make her whimper and writhe, to wring out every last breathy groan of want from her lips.

She arches into him further, his husky voice in her ear soothing away the demanding little pleas she wasn't aware were spilling from her tongue. River opens her mouth, turning her head so her lips find his jaw, panting into him.

"Darling, please," she manages, nails digging into his skin, heels urging him on.

With a hoarse little chuckle, the Doctor finally relents, sliding his arms beneath her and clutching the tops of her shoulders for leverage as he prepares to finally slide inside her. Her breath catches in her throat at the first sign of pressure. Slowly, inch by torturous inch, he enters her. Her body welcomes him, stretching around his length and clamping down like she means to keep him there for eternity.

When he's finally sheathed himself completely, a stuttering breath slips out from between the Doctor’s slightly parted lips, gasping and burrowing his face in her neck like she's pulled the very air from his lungs and hidden it away at the very heart of her being. His grip on her tightens like he means to surrender more than just his breath, like he intends to bury himself deeper and deeper inside her as many times as it takes for their souls to become one.

The feel of him inside her is nirvana, his bruising grip ecstasy, his ragged breaths on her neck more hypnotic than any euphoric drug. The heady rush of it all causes a shudder of pleasure to ripple out from somewhere deep inside River’s bones. Her breath still seems to be trapped in her lungs, but oxygen seems trivial when she’s already on the brink of bliss. She’ll never need to breathe or move or speak again because she has never been so full, so complete. She feels him humming in her veins; he is above her and inside her body and within her being and all around her all at once.

His minds reaches out to hers, exploring places he never could before, opening doors that had once been locked up tight. She reaches into his to do the same, unearthing parts of him that have been buried for centuries. The Doctor groans, both their minds suddenly overwhelmed by years long past and days not so long ago lived. Flashes of how he sees her flicker by like sunlight through trees, the many ways he's loved her all these years singing like a symphony in fast forward.

_Rows and rows of books but the only one of interest has a cracked spine and faded blue cover, the shadows that scare him most the ones that hide behind her knowing green eyes. She terrifies him and beguiles him and fills him with hope for a better future. His future. Her past. All of time and space waiting with a snap of her fingers._

_He’s dying, but it’s too soon, far too soon. She doesn’t even know him yet. His lips still tingle from her poison kiss and yet he holds no grudges. There are far worse ways to die than by her lips. He is only enamored and filled with the need to protect, to teach, to give her hope._

_It storms outside her prison cell, lightning painting shadows on the concrete walls as she leans in to kiss him. His hearts race in his chest and her lips are something new, something electric, something that makes his insides buzz with more energy than he knows how to control._

_River always loved a tomb and the fleeting thought makes him smile as he pulls her toward him, because he has to, he simply must, his body will allow no other way. They are standing in his grave but the press of her lips feels like coming home. It’s something familiar and sweet and comfortable, and it calms his palpitating hearts. She is a balm, setting his soul at ease for the first time in eons._

Her body clenches around him and she is open and full and gasping and it has nothing to do with their naked bodies. It is naked minds; their souls are laid bare and it is breathtaking. They stay. Still. Like placid water. Like sunbeams peeking through rainclouds. Warm and sweet. And in this moment, she knows how it feels to be at peace.

Mind still tangled in hers, he slowly withdraws from her body. Her hips follow his, searching, wanting. He sinks inside her again and this time River moans, the sound forced out of her lungs in a heady rush. The wanton sound spurs him on, their bodies parting and joining and parting and joining, every thrust like the universe is dying and being born. They are one mind, one body. They are slick skin and pounding hearts and frantic, rolling hips. They rock together, the rhythmic slap of skin and strangled moans a symphony she never wants to forget.

He makes love to her like he travels through the vortex, all sparks and electricity, erratic and rough and wonderful. It's more wild, more helpless than it ever was before. His thoughts flow more freely, his hips snapping with more abandon. Everything is more more _more_. She feels herself at the brink faster than ever before, stomach coiling into tight little knots, body trying desperately to curl in on itself. Her desire rolls against his mind in waves. She lets every emotion flow through him, unrestrained. Her pleasure building, sparking, _burning_ her up from the inside. Fullness and love crashing over them both in tidal waves.

His brow is pinched and she smooths away the creases with her thumbs, her fingers threading though his sweat-slicked hair. He palms at her breast, slow at first, testing its weight, but his greedy grip grows demanding, pinching at her hardened nipple until she keens. Every upward stroke of his thrusts makes her see stars, the growl in his breath as she digs her nails into his back causing her to shudder and shake.

She’s lost for words. Only one thing stands bright and hot in her mind, one central theme that hums in her veins and beats out of her hearts. There’s only one thing she can say to express the way she feels, how loved and whole. There is only one way to tell him that all is right, that he will never have to fear losing her again.

She breathes out his name and the Doctor shakes like she’s sent a white hot volt through his entire body. He tenses and pants, holding back, holding on, surging forward again and again like the tide trying to become one with the sand and make its home on the shore.

River breaks first, shaking beneath him as she surrenders to pleasure, pulsing around him until she drags him into ecstasy right along with her. A strangled cry fills the air around them. She isn't sure if it's from his lips or hers but her throat is dry and her ears are ringing and her vision has gone black at the edges. Bliss racks through her body in waves, pulsing outward from where they are joined. His hips stutter in their endeavor to wring them both of every last ounce pleasure, to hold on to this delicious feeling as long as they can.

Their thoughts grip hold of one another in an embrace she isn't sure they'll ever untangle from. They may be forever locked here, wrapped around each other and suspended in oblivion. The prospect makes her eyes water, warm tears spilling over and washing away any lingering worries or fears. A drop of moisture must roll across his cheek because the Doctor stills his movements, looking up from where he'd buried his face in her neck.

River does not hide her tears and the Doctor does not shy away. He lifts a hand, the brightest, softest smile she's ever seen tugging at his lips as he wipes her tears away with his thumb. Neither of them speak, but the silence that settles between them is enough for them to know they have been cleansed, the sins and secrets of the past washing away to make room for something greater.

His own eyes are bright, shining not with tears but with a youthful optimism he must have drawn from the very marrow of his bones. He's still smiling when he drops his lips to her tear-stained cheeks, sealing their affections with a kiss. She can feel his erratic heartbeats through his chest, their bodies still humming from post-coital bliss.

When the Doctor finally catches his breath and rolls to his side, River follows after, her knee still hooked over his hip. The Doctor's hand instantly finds its way into her curls, running his fingers through her tangled locks. He's always fascinated by her hair in moments like this, enraptured by how wild it looks after she's been thoroughly ravished.

Comfortable silence settles in the air and River lets out a satisfied hum, enjoying the way his fingers scratch lightly at her scalp.

"Did you know house flies hum in the key of F?” he asks, an insufferable smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

River mirrors his expression, remembering the last time they'd lain across a bed and he'd broken the silence with those very same words. "I did actually," she admits, her smirk deepening. "The last handsome man I lured into my bed told me."

His nonexistent brows lift, feigning a look of admiration. "His pillow talk sounds like the work of unparalleled genius."

"Oh it is," she agrees, the glint in her eyes as playful as the fingers that crawl their way up his belly. "And he has a pretty face to match. Can't say much about his dress sense though, simply atrocious."

An adorable look of mock outrage flashes across his ridiculous face before his eyes narrow and his hands seek out her sides, mercilessly tickling her. River’s shameless grin is swallowed by a squeak of surprise, rolling away from him as her body gives an involuntary jerk. He must decide that the small distance between them doesn't suit, because he abandons his assault to pull her closer.

River surrenders, curling into his lean frame and letting his arms wrap tightly around her. His breath stirs her curls and River strokes her fingers along his bare skin, scratching lightly until he's purring at her touch. With her ear to his chest, she can feel the vibrations through his sternum. There's nothing quite like it, the sound of his hearts without the accompanied tick of a clock. She likes it like this, with only their skin and bones to separate them.

"Lucky for him,” River confesses into his chest, her teasing fingers swirling around his belly button. “I prefer him naked."

She can feel the way his lips curl against the top of her head, a low rumble rising out of his throat before he speaks. His voice is thick, not with lust or sleep, but with quiet content as he whispers, "I'll bet you do, you little minx."

The sound of it compels her to lift her head, seeking him out. When she does, she finds his eyes have fluttered closed. He looks peaceful, tranquil, a small blissful smile etched onto his face.

_When morning finds her, she is warm and snug, cocooned by soft sheets and a possessive embrace. As she blinks into consciousness, it takes a moment to recall exactly whose arm is wrapped around her. Whoever the limb belongs to, it is wiry and strong and cradling her to a decidedly masculine form._

_As her eyes finally focus, she finds her head is tucked into the Doctor’s chest, his chin resting atop her curls. She isn't sure how she found herself in this position, snuggled up close with a man she barely knows. She remembers his shadow pacing outside her door and the attentive way he'd draped an extra blanket across the foot of her bed. She remembers inviting him to stay and the stutter of her hearts as he shed his coat and climbed into her bed. She remembers talking about the nightmares that plague her and the sleepy smile he tried to hide when he offered to keep them at bay._

_The hum of energy in her rejuvenated bones tells her he succeeded in his task, even if he did succumb to sleep himself. A euphoric rush blooms in her chest. She can't explain what it is or why, but whatever it is makes her what to burrow deeper into this man’s lanky figure and stay there. It takes more strength than she'd like to admit to resist the urge. Instead of abandoning the safe haven of these sheets completely, she settles for wiggling free of his hold, leaning up on her elbow so her eyes can seek out the face of the mysterious man at her side._

_However they came to be in this position, he doesn't look like he's complaining. In fact, he’s smiling in his sleep. The stillness of his features begs her eyes to examine him closer, taking note of his sharp features and oddly attractive face. Her eyes travel down his body, lean and lightly muscled and more inviting than one might think at first glance. Her gaze stalls over the hard lines of his chest, remembering the thump of his double pulse beneath her ear. She recalls asking him about them, the word 'bespoke' hanging in the air as their rhythmic beating lulled her to sleep._

_"River." Her name falls off his lips in a sleepy mumble and all lingering thoughts of the curious word are banished, her gaze snapping back to his. Her eyes are wide and guilty, her hearts fluttering like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't. When she locks onto his face again, her worries fade instantly, a relieved smile spreading her lips as she finds he's still dreaming. He's rather adorable when he sleeps, hair a mess, clothing rumpled, and cheeks tugging upward as he mutters her name and something about fish fingers._

The thought of food and remembering the smell of the breakfast she'd made for him that morning causes her stomach to make itself known. But hunger seems a minor inconvenience when she's wrapped in such soft sheets and warm embrace. She dares say no cosmic force could pull her from this bed. For once there is nothing to bid them to part and no daunting deadlines laid out before them. There is no countdown, no need to hurry from one moment to the next. They can stay just like this, naked, entwined, and carefree for as long as they like.

She can't say for sure what troubles tomorrow will bring or what the future holds. She doesn't know what they'll do or where they'll go from here. All she knows is that, wherever it is, they'll go there together. And, for now, everywhere seems like the perfect place to start.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic - And the Rest is Rust and Stardust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335869) by [Professor_river_who](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professor_river_who/pseuds/Professor_river_who)




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